


Your spirit calling out to mine

by Elesianne



Series: Fëanorian marriages [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (also some of the time), (but only some of the time), Anger-Management Issues, Angst, Courtship, Developing Relationship, Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Family, Fluff, Happy Ending, Romance, The Noldor, The Vanyar, Years of the Trees, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: Sometimes your heart chooses for you before you even know there is a choice to make, and then all that can be done is find out whether love can build bridges across differences and fears.The story of how Caranthir comes to be married. Contains both fluff and angst, as well as Caranthir's family members alternately helping and hindering his attempts at courting.





	1. A garden in silver light, part I

**Author's Note:**

> This story in a nutshell: it's about how Caranthir ends up married despite being fairly terrible at courtship, contains some fluff and angst but neither is extreme, also includes light-hearted scenes with the sons of Fëanor (because nothing is more fun to write), has a slow pace, and uses [Quenya names](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/153874978666/tolkien-meta-rambling-the-quenya-names-of-the) because it takes place in Valinor. There are sometimes long breaks between updates but I firmly intend to keep writing and eventually finish this fic.
> 
> Timeframe: takes place in the happy days before the Silmarils and before Melkor started spreading strife. Caranthir, who is here Fëanor's fourth son, between Celegorm and Curufin, is a young adult, Curufin has just come of age, and the twins are still kids.
> 
> This is a fairly long, unabashedly romantic fic in which little besides of matters of the heart goes on. So if you don't like romantic stuff, this might be boring. On the other hand, if you would like to read a longish story just about how two very different people end up married, you're in the right place!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boring formal party improves considerably for Carnistir when he encounters a girl in the palace garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya names of the House of Fëanor can be checked [here](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/153874978666/tolkien-meta-rambling-the-quenya-names-of-the). Others in this chapter: Findaráto=Finrod, Findekáno=Fingon.

Carnistir dislikes formal parties, and he hates long formal parties. This one might well be the longest he has ever had to attend.

King Finwë is having a grand celebration to honour a lengthy official visit by King Ingwë to Tirion, and naturally all of Finwë's grandchildren are expected to attend and represent their family by wearing their very best clothes and being on their very best behaviour.The sons of Fëanáro are rankled by this, since he has passed on to them much of the dislike he feels for the Vanyar because of his father's second marriage to a Vanya. Yet here they are, Fëanáro and Nerdanel and all seven of their sons, for Finwë's sake. Fëanáro may feel animosity towards the Vanyar, but his love and respect for his father are greater.

So there they stand, lined up, and listen as several of Finwë's grandsons exhibit their talents. Makalaurë performs his newest composition, a long paean to the light of the two Trees, a subject close to the heart of the Vanyar and breathtakingly boring to Carnistir. He falls into a daze of sorts listening to his brother's beautiful voice and has to be kicked in the shin by Maitimo so that he remembers to join the applause when the song finally ends.

Then Findaráto and Findekáno sing another song, and though it probably isn't as long it also feels interminable. Because it's now his cousins and not his brother performing, Carnistir makes less of an effort to look like he's listening.

And there are many, many other songs and speeches and pieces of protocol to be performed besides the songs of Finwë's grandsons, and Carnistir has to listen and watch and try to look at least moderately attentive, because he is standing in front of a great crowd of people with his family. The Ambarussar are as bored as he is, but they are small enough that they can hide behind their older brothers and entertain themselves by making faces at each other. Carnistir tries to shield them from Nerdanel's eyes so that their mother doesn't have to drive herself to distraction trying to find ways to reprimand them silently.

Finally the official business and formal entertainment is over and it is time for dinner, a great banquet where Fëanáro's family are seated at one of the tables on a raised platform, better to be gawked at by all others. On Carnistir's right side is seated a young woman of Finwë's court whom he knows from earlier events and who knows him well enough that she doesn't even try to make polite conversation with him but instead talks exclusively with the man sitting on her other side, and the woman in his left side is soon so smitten with the handsome Vanya noble on her left that she ignores Carnistir completely.

This suits Carnistir just fine. He enjoys the excellent food in silence, deep in his own thoughts, and then escapes from the table as early as he dares, which is soon after dinner is over and musicians start tuning their instruments for dancing to start.

He heads out of the ballroom into the palace gardens. Once he gets outside he closes his eyes and takes in the fresh air, so lovely after the heat and stuffiness of indoors; though the halls of his grandfather's palace are large, they now feel quite cramped and suffocating. The king of the Vanyar and all Eldar has brought practically his whole court with him, and many other Vanyarin nobles and dignitaries too, and Finwë has similarly invited a great number of Noldor to this celebration. There are even some representatives of King Olwë from Alqualondë.

Carnistir needs a break from them all to remain civilised, so he heads out deeper into the garden to find a quiet spot where he can relax for a while. He can talk with his family or friends for hours, but formal events like this put him on edge. He finds making empty, courteous conversation difficult and is nervous about losing his temper, especially on this night that is all about Noldor-Vanyar diplomacy, not exactly the strength of his immediate family.

Finding an unoccupied quiet place proves harder than he had anticipated even though he knows every nook and cranny in this garden. Because he was sitting in the most keenly observed table during the dinner, he could not leave as early as many others had, and those others are now enjoying the fresh air and lovely scents of the royal garden in Telperion's waxing silver light. Many of the secluded spots in the garden are in the usual use to which they fall during celebrations where wine flows and people are merry: twice Carnistir interrupts a tender moment between lovers and has to hurry away apologising, his face turning the bright shade of red that his mother named him for.

He is already despairing of finding a free place to sit and about to resign himself to just leaning against some sturdy statue when he remembers one more place he could check. At the farthermost corner of the great garden there is a small clearing half-hidden behind high rosebushes, a little artificial glade with just one long wooden bench and some night-blooming flowers.

When he gets there he thinks for a moment that he has found his free spot but then sees a slender figure sitting at the far end of the bench, her white dress almost blending in with the great white roses in the bush behind her. She leaps up when she notices him.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean disturb you. Or startle you', he says quickly, keenly aware of always doing the wrong thing on occasions like this.

'It's – It's all right, I'm easily startled', the woman says. Or girl, for she is rather young, a little younger than he is probably. And with that unmistakable blonde hair she must be a Vanya.

'I am sorry', he says again like an idiot. 'I'll leave you in peace.' She is probably waiting for someone anyway.

As he turns to go she says, 'You don't have to go because of me. There is enough space for both of us on this bench.'

He looks at her a little suspiciously; is she flirting with him? Women sometimes do because he is the king's grandson (rarely for other reasons; he is not the flirting type and women can see that, and many are a little scared of him for his famously short temper). But she doesn't look like she is trying to entice him, she just looks like she is being friendly in a slightly awkward way.

'I don't think I have the right to claim a whole corner of the garden for myself, and I would feel bad for driving you away', she continues. 'And I will probably leave in a moment anyway.'

Carnistir looks at her and the bench: this is a nice spot and there is no free space anywhere else. And she does not seem too bad, not for a Vanyarin girl anyway.

So he sits down, not quite at the other end of the bench but far enough from her that it is clear that they are not sitting on a bench together, they just happen to be sitting on the same bench.

'It is a lovely spot', she says, and her voice is melodious and unintrusive enough that he does not mind very much that he is not getting the silence he had sought.

'I have always liked it.'

'Do you know what those little flowers are called that smell so wonderful? We do not have them at Taniquetil.'

Carnistir wracks his memory, recalling a childhood afternoon spent wandering in the garden as his grandfather taught him and Tyelkormo about various plants growing there. 'Their name is _silmelen_ , silver star.'

'Very descriptive name.' The girl smiles down at the flowers in the grass, which indeed are silvery in colour and have two opposing petals in many different layers giving them a star-like shape.

'Speaking of names, mine is Ingolmiel Tuilindien', she offers.

'I am Morifinwë Carnistir, of the House of Fëanor.'

'I know, my lord.' Ingolmiel smiles. 'King Finwë introduced all of his grandchildren.'

'Ah, yes. Of course.' He feels a little stupid, as he often does when talking to people he doesn't know well. 'But there are so many of us, surely you cannot remember everyone's names.'

'Not quite everyone. But I have a good memory for words and names.'

'My memory for names is not especially good. I sometimes embarrass myself at these courtly events by getting people's names wrong. I might forget yours in a moment', he says, though he still remembers her name quite well. He wonders why this daughter of Ingolmo is also called 'swallow', a swift little bird. She is not short, just slender like Vanyarin women tend to be.

'I will not mind if you forget my name', she says and smiles again. She seems to be a smiling sort of a girl. 'As long as you do not tell anyone that I am hiding back here, I shall be happy.'

Against all likelihood he finds himself smiling back at her. 'What are you hiding from?'

'My family, my sister especially. And may I ask what is the cause for your coming to this remote spot?'

She asked softly and politely, but he likes her frankness. 'Also my family. They would try to make me dance.'

'Oh, the horror.' As he is about to become irate, she shakes her head and says, 'I quite understand. I am also avoiding dancing. My older sister already had a dance partner chosen for me and if I had not slipped away while she was still finishing her dessert she would have thrown me at him.'

Her choice of words makes him smile again and banishes the storm that had been gathering. 'She sounds like a very determined woman.'

'She is, and unfortunately for me her current determination is that I must find a husband and enter the same state of wedded bliss that she is enjoying. Which would be nice enough, I suppose, but not if it requires dancing.'

By now Carnistir has been completely swept into the conversation and forgotten that he had been seeking silence. 'What is wrong with dancing?'

'Nothing, if you can do it. I cannot. I have two left feet.'

'I think I have three.' As Ingolmiel giggles a little that, he explains, pleased at her reaction, 'I must have, because I seem to be stepping on my own feet so much of the time I surely could not manage it with only two. Not to mention stepping on my partners' feet too.'

As she smiles again, looking both shy and mischievous, he notices that she has small dimples. She says, 'You are doing an act of charity, then, hiding here instead of being on the dance floor', sounding like she cannot quite believe that she is teasing him.

He would laugh out loud if he were not so fascinated by those dimples. 'Yes, I am very charitable. Also because by staying away I am giving my younger brother an excellent chance to step in and practise his skills in entertaining maidens.'

He also has a rare mischievous look in his eyes – he is feeling remarkably light and frivolous – and apparently Ingolmiel can see it, for she says cheerfully, 'Tormenting younger siblings is how one survives being bossed around by older ones, is it not?'

'Absolutely. Although my younger brother – the next youngest, I mean – is such a crafty bas–, I mean, a crafty one that it is hard to fool him in any way.'

'My little sister – and I also mean next youngest, I have another little sister but she is just a baby – is quite sweet so I try not to be too hard on her', says the Vanya girl – Ingolmiel, 'scholar's daughter', and Tuilindien – he can still remember her names, and he is still wondering why she is called 'swallow', especially if she is not particularly graceful as her description of her dancing skills lets him understand. The reason for his own mother-name always becomes apparent to anyone who speaks with him for longer than a moment, but many others have names that are subtler if just as meaningful.

He tries to think of something to say, because for once he finds that he actually wants to continue a polite conversation. Not that their conversation is particularly polite (tormenting siblings is hardly a polite topic of discussion) but still, it is a conversation with a virtual stranger at a party. His mother would be proud of him for keeping it up this long. But family is an easy subject for him – he has so much of it, it is easy to think of things to talk about.

So, since he cannot think of a new subject, he continues on that. 'So you have three sisters at least?'

'Yes, I have three. It feels like very many but it is nothing compared to your six brothers, is it?'

He grimaces. 'I have always thought that my parents should have stopped at four children like sensible people.' He realises that this sounds exceedingly grumpy. Which it is and which often is his mood, of course, but he also does love his brothers, even the irritating ones, and maybe it would be good to let this girl see that side of him too and not just the dourness. So he says, 'The twins are all right, though. Very nice, as children go.'

'They are a very sweet pair, with their lovely red hair and similar features. People must be cooing over them all the time. I know that many at this party were.'

He says that they look sweet, but they can also be little rascals; and he tells her of how just a week ago they sneaked into his room while he was gone and scribbled all over some important design sketches of his and then burnt them to get rid of the evidence when they realised what they had done. Ingolmiel laughs and commiserates and says that her little sister has also mistreated her papers. They fall into comparing their siblings' antics, and neither of them remembers that she had intended to leave soon to let him be alone.

Eventually they drift on to other subjects, including themselves, and he learns that she is a scholar of languages, studying to become a loremistress, and would rather be at a library or debating the intricacies of etymology rather than at a party, though she often has to attend parties because her grandfather is one of King Ingwë's lords. (For a moment he is surprised that she is of noble birth, for he had judged her unadorned white dress quite plain; but then he remembers that the Vanyar prefer simpler clothing than the Noldor, and like to wear few embellishments even with their most formal clothes.)

He says that he also finds parties difficult to bear sometimes and that during dinner he had participated very little in any conversation and instead had come up with some ideas for the new ventilation system he is planning for his family's smithy.

'You see, the air quality at the end of a long workday is absolutely dreadful, and windows –', Carnistir freezes in the middle of the sentence as he realises that he is talking about _forge ventilation_ to a pretty girl at a courtly party. A Vanya girl – the Vanyar in general are not interested in crafting things, and a young female scholar is the least likely of all to be interested. Sheer horror at his own stupidity overcomes him and he struggles to keep it from showing, though he has no doubt he is blushing furiously anyway.

Thankfully Ingolmiel does not seem to notice his sudden discomfort, or is polite enough to choose to ignore it. 'What about windows?' she asks, her eyes fixed on his face as they have been for a while now. As they had settled into their pleasant conversation she had stopped looking down at the flowers on the ground and he had ceased staring at the sky and they had turned towards each other.

She actually looks interested, Carnistir realises. Perhaps talking to her about forge ventilation is not the terrible social faux pas he had thought it to be, seconds ago.

'Windows are problematic', he starts again and explains. And having told her the main points of his ventilation plan, he next tells her that he is also in the process of drawing up plans for an extension to the forge and workshop. There are now many grown brothers working there and the twins' training is about to begin, and they are running out of space.

'And you would not believe how angry my father gets when a project of his goes awry because someone distracts him at a crucial moment or spills over something or upsets some delicate arrangement.' Carnistir means to speak flippantly but Ingolmiel can see that this is a serious matter to him, something that disturbs him.

No, she believes his words but finds them hard to understand, and she is a little shaken by the hint of apprehensiveness she saw in his eyes. Ingolmiel tilts her head a little and considers what to say in reply, deciding not to directly comment on what he said. 'My father is so even-tempered that we – I mean the rest of my family, my mother and my sisters and I – quite often get exasperated when he fails to see the importance of something that we are upset or dismayed about.'

'I find that hard to imagine', says Carnistir, honest and direct as he tends to be, and then regrets it and tries to make it better. 'I mean, there are so many short-tempered people in my family, I am more used to everyone snapping often. Also because I am myself more like my father than my patient mother.' _That is not helpful_ , he curses himself.

But by now she has recovered enough to pick up the conversation and keep it going while he gets over his discomfiture, and they move on from family to other, hopefully safer topics. Carnistir is thankful for her tact, though he wonders how such an innocuous thing as family turned out to be a subject capable of raising incomprehension and uneasiness. _But then again my family is not exactly usual_.

As they keep talking, at one point he gets restless and tired of sitting and stands for a moment, gesturing with his hands as he explains something he is particularly excited about. And when he sits back down again he doesn't take a seat so far away from her but at a reasonable talking distance.

And as soon as he sits closer to her he knows it was a good idea, because now he can tell for sure – he had been wondering about it – that her eyes are a remarkable colour, a blue-green that he has never seen in anyone's eyes before. It must be a Vanyarin trait; he hasn't been acquainted with very many Vanyar, and his annoying cousins who inherited Indis' golden hair have nevertheless very Noldorin eyes, grey or blue-grey. Never greenish.

He tries not to stare at her too much, but she doesn't seem to mind; indeed, she often looks at his face too,  seemingly studying his features. He tries to keep from blushing though he knows it is likely a futile attempt. But it is much nicer than he would have thought to have a girl looking at him like that, though he doubts she gets as much pleasure from looking at him as he from looking at her. He knows he is not a bad-looking young man, in spite of his unfortunate complexion, but he is not famed for his beauty like Maitimo or Tyelko, either.

In fact Ingolmiel, or Tuilindien as she is known among family and friends, does very much enjoy looking at Morifinwë while he looks at her. She has never before been quite so pleased to be the object of a man's attention, though she cannot say why – what causes the difference. What is so special about this shy-at-first, then-eager-to-talk Noldo prince with heavy black brows, whose mood, reflected so clearly in his face, seems to shift like leaves in the wind as he talks? She understands that she is unusually taken with him, but she does not know why.

She had been exhausted after striving to be sociable, charming and dignified, all at the same time, for hours at the party as she tried to make her mother proud (her mother, who is one of Ingwë's councillors, is more at home at grand functions than anywhere else). She had also been feeling a little light-headed from the strong Noldorin wine, and for these reasons she had been very grateful to find a solitary, restful spot in the garden where she could collect her thoughts and clear her head.

Yet when he had joined her she had not minded at all, as soon as she had seen him and how contrite he was for startling her. And then she had started talking to him even though he had seemed like he would have been content to be left in silence, and he had turned out to be happy enough to talk if awkward at times.

Now the silver light brightens while they keep talking and stealing glances at each other, except that it can hardly be called stealing when both delight in gazing at the other and both realise it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter picks up directly from here.
> 
> I know nothing about forges and smithwork yet I have to keep referring to those subjects in this fic, so please bear with me.
> 
> If you have the time, please do leave a comment :) All sorts of comments are welcome, and they motivate and inspire me to keep writing and to make this story as good as it can be.


	2. A garden in silver light, part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a while, until the outside world intervenes, Carnistir and Tuilindien can see no reason to leave their lovely spot and lovely conversation in the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues directly where the first one left off.The story will start moving more swiftly once this initial meeting is over.

When Carnistir sees Tuilindien lick her lips as she thinks about her answer to a question he asked, his mind flies off to a wholly unexpected new place and he has to yank it back by force to stop this conversation from turning into an extremely embarrassing one. While that new place is far from unpleasant, it is inappropriate for this moment. Even he knows that.

To stop thinking about ascertaining whether her lips are really as soft as they look, he blurts out, 'Are you hungry?'

'I suppose I could eat something, I did escape from dinner early', she says a little hesitantly, and then, 'But to be quite honest, I would not like to go in yet.'

His heart skips a beat and he tells himself, in a strict inner voice, that she might just want to continue avoiding dancing; her words do not necessarily mean that she wants to stay talking with him. He offers, 'I could step in quickly, gather some food and then come back here. No one will wonder if I reappear and then disappear again. At this point, everyone's expectations of my manners are very low.'

She blinks a few times. 'That would be very kind of you. Will there be some sort of cake, do you think?'

'I will bring you cake if there is any', he promises and gets up. 'Just wait here', he finds himself telling her before he can think about how silly it sounds. She wasn't going anywhere.

Tuilindien watches him walk away with long determined strides. She turns her head to the large white flowers blooming in the bush behind her and breathes in their scent, but they do not smell of much at night and this attempt to concentrate on something other than the man who just left her and will return soon is unsuccessful.

This – he – was the last thing she expected to find at King Finwë's celebration, and she knows that she should bring an end to their time in the garden. It is unseemly and discourteous to spend all night hiding away with one man, shunning all other company; she has been raised to have better manners than this, and indeed usually does behave better. What must he think of her? Perhaps it is the wine she drank at dinner making her behave so thoughtlessly…

He thinks her fascinating, that is what it seems like, and it seems that she thinks his fascination wonderful. She knows that her family is probably getting worried after not seeing her for a long time, but even though she does not want to cause them distress, she is not ready to return to them. Not before he returns to her and she can watch him for a moment longer, his expressive dark eyes under long lashes, and listen to his low and pleasant voice as he explains something he is passionate about. There seems to be so much passion in him: it is exhilarating to her, and a little frightening.

When he returns after a surprisingly short time, he is balancing plates full of cakes and other delicacies on both his arms and carrying half-full wineglasses between the fingers of one hand and a whole carafe in the other.

She gets up to help him but as she does she feels a sharp tug of pain on her scalp and realises that her hair has become tangled up in the foliage. She yelps with pain and sits down again, gripping her head, then starts trying to disentangle her braids from the branches but scratches her finger on a thorn almost right away.

'Stop', commands Carnistir when he sees blood appear on her finger. 'Wait a moment.'

He sets down the food and wine, spilling almost all of the wine in the glasses on to the bench in his haste. He sits down very close to her and begins to extricate her hair.

She sits very still, and he has already removed one gleaming strand from the rosebush before he realises that he should probably have asked for her permission.

'Do you mind?'

'No.' She tries to shake her head but he stops it with a swift but gentle movement of his hand.

'Stay still', he says and returns to his task. It is a task he adores, for her hair is soft and smells better than the roses, and he fancies that he can see the silver treelight reflected in every single strand. The light makes its colour, probably a deep blonde shade like ripe wheat in any other lighting, look like pale gold.

A thorn rips his skin open but he just flicks the drop of blood aside and draws one last braid from among the branches and returns it back to its place in her simple hairdo. He tries to fix in place with a comb she has in her hair, a flimsy little thing decorated with a seashell in Telerin style, but the comb comes apart in his hands. 'I – I am so sorry, Ingolmiel, I think I broke your comb.'

'Oh.' She takes its pieces from his hand. 'No need to apologise, it was an old cracked thing already. I only wore it because –'

'Because what?' Carnistir watches as she bites her lip, embarrassed.

'Because it has always been good luck charm that I wear when I am nervous. For my exams, and for important parties.' She slips the pieces into a hidden pocket on the side of her skirts. 'It is very silly, I know.'

'It is not silly.' At her disbelieving look, he admits, 'Well, it is. But it is no matter.' He looks at her hair, the arrangement of small braids laying on top of freely flowing tresses now in disarray without the comb. 'I am afraid your coiffure is ruined now.'

Before he can stop himself he is straightening out the braids; it does not look the same as it did before, but it appears more purposeful now. She makes no noise and stays still, even turning her head a little towards his touch, and he takes a little longer than he needs to. Then, with a deep feeling of regret, he pulls his hand away and says, the words coming out very soft, 'There, that is as good as I can make it.'

Tuilindien turns to look at him. 'Thank you.' Her voice is a little husky now, and she does not seem angry with him for taking freedoms with her person. But she does shift to sit a little farther away from him.

'You are welcome.' Carnistir turns to busy himself with the food, certain that his cheeks must be flame-red. 'I am afraid I spilled almost all of the Vanyarin wine I brought, but there is plenty of our Noldorin wine.'

'Either is fine.' She is unaccustomed to the stronger drink the Noldor make, but its taste is not unpleasant, she has found tonight.

Carnistir hands her what is left of the light honey-coloured Vanyarin wine and an assortment of cakes. Their fingers touch as she takes the proffered treats, and she marvels again at how warm his skin is. When he had been helping her with her hair, she had felt the heat of him as if on her own skin. It had been delightful, but no matter how much she had enjoyed the warmth of his body next to hers, they had been indecently close. She is very well-bred, so she had moved to a decorous distance.

For a while they eat and drink in silence, both recovering from the unexpectedly intimate interactions. Tuilindien can see that he is looking even more awkward than she is feeling, and more surly and unhappy every moment that passes.

'These lemon cakes are very lovely', she remarks just to fill the silence, well aware of how inane a comment this is.

It makes a light come to life in his eyes anyway, and he responds eagerly. 'They are my favourite, too. I believe grandfather orders them from a baker in southern Tirion, they are not from the palace kitchens.'

'We have lemon trees in our garden at Taniquetil', Tuilindien says and takes a sip of the dark red Noldorin wine he just poured for her. 'I will have to ask our cook to make treats like this when we return home.'

It is as if a curtain is pulled across the light inside him; his eyes dim and his mouth twists into a very different expression. 'You will be going home when High King Ingwë does. Of course.'

 _Had he forgotten that I am only visiting, and it is truly this important for him?_ She is still taken aback by how much his emotions show on his physical form. She also feels like she wants to see him again, but she dares not let it show so clearly.

Speaking gently, she replies that she might be staying behind in Tirion for a while with her father when the rest of her family goes home with the king. Her father is also a scholar and they are both interested in exploring the libraries of the Noldor, and she, a young linguist in the beginning of her career, hopes to meet some of the most eminent linguists of the Noldor.

'I wrote to Rúmil some time ago', she says a little nervously. 'Your father, of course, is just as renowned for his work with our languages and letters, but I understand that he now mainly pursues other interests.'

'Yes, he prefers his workshop and forge to libraries now.' Carnistir picks one of the small cakes apart with his fingers. 'His interests change from time to time.'

'He famously has very many talents', Tuilindien puts it more diplomatically. 'And he is a high prince, so it is understandable that he has little time to devote to scholars' meetings. That is no doubt why Rúmil is the one to host us Vanyarin scholars while we are here in Tirion.'

Ah yes. Carnistir remembers there being talk of this, before King Ingwë's visit and again during tonight's more boring parts. This royal visit is not only for diplomacy but also for strengthening trade relations and for scholarly communities to meet and exchange ideas.

She is being very gracious about it all, he thinks. Implying that his father would be in charge of the scholarly collaborations if not for his many responsibilities, when in fact he would not play host to any Vanyar even if scholarship was still his main pursuit. Ingolmiel must know this, for Fëanáro hardly keeps his opinions to himself; surely they are also known among Ingwë's people.

Tuilindien is in fact aware of Fëanáro's coolness towards her people – to put it mildly – and that is why she is so nervous about what she feels she must tell Morifinwë next.

'In one of the scholars' meetings that are planned, I am going to give a presentation.'

'Really?' He looks impressed.

'It is not an important presentation, just a small one that marks the beginning of my own work as a scholar rather than as another's assistant.' Now she is the one nervously playing with her food. 'Actually, my presentation is on a commentary that I have written on one your father's earliest works about language.'

'Oh.' He looks like he does not know what to think about this.

'My commentary is mostly complimentary on his treatise, but of course as is the case always with scholarly work, I – well, I do not presume to improve on his work, but I do point out some of your father's views which have been since disproved or called into question.'

Morifinwë frowns. 'Do you think I will mind that?'

She has been feeling a little nervous, and like he should know about this, before they – she did not know what she thought they would do, but… Oh, she is feeling so muddled. It now seems a ridiculous notion that she could present her views on prince Fëanáro's work when she cannot even carry a conversation with his son.

When she does not answer instantly, Morifinwë moves a little closer to her again and tells her, very earnestly, 'I do not care what you say about my father's treatise – well, as long as you do not completely ridicule it, I suppose. I confess I know little about scholarly matters but I do know that critiquing each other's work is part of it. I only hope your presentation will go well.'

'Thank you', she says and smiles at him in gratitude. 'I promise I am usually not this inelegant in conversation, so I do have some hope of not completely embarrassing myself in front of the brightest minds of Taniquetil and Tirion. And I have been preparing this presentation for a long time.'

'I am certain it will be wonderful, then', he says, in a show of loyalty that she will soon learn is characteristic to him.

Tuilindien takes a tiny sip of wine – best be careful with that since she seems to be prone to becoming disorientated in his company anyway – and asks him about a detail in his extension plans that she had not quite understood earlier, and little by little they find their way back to the easily flowing discussion they had enjoyed earlier.

Though she is careful with the wine, and he hardly drinks enough to become intoxicated either, it is somehow so very easy to smile and laugh and feel wonderful together in this little corner of the great garden that has for a while become their world. When the appearance of another person reminds them that this is in fact not all there is, it is like a rude awakening from a lovely dream.

A woman pops her head in past the rosebushes when they laugh loudly together at something very silly.  Carnistir recognises her as Maquetimië, a lady of Finwë's court, married to one of his advisors and generally regarded as the worst gossipmonger in Tirion's high society. As soon as he sees her Carnistir wants to swear, but he manages to keep quiet and only scowl at the woman.

His scowl does not subdue Maquetimië in the least: she looks delighted when she sees Carnistir. 'Prince Morifinwë, how nice to see that you are enjoying this party that your grandfather planned for so long! But I heard your mother remark, quite a while ago now, that she wonders where you are.'

Carnistir, who has already leapt up from the bench, tells her, 'I believe that I am old enough that my mother does not seriously worry about my wellbeing when she does not see me for a while.' 

He realises that he is talking loudly and angrily, although thank the Valar he managed to keep his words at least moderately civil. But he can see out of the corner of his eye that Tuilindien looks confused and a little worried, so he tries to fix the situation.

He bows to the old crow, stiffly but deep enough to be just about respectful, and says, 'I do thank you for your concern, lady, but I do not wish to detain you from the company of those you were seeking when you happened upon me and this young lady conversing.' He tries to keep his tone from being too freezing, but allows all of his natural haughtiness to shine through.

Maquetimië understands his words as the dismissal they are and leaves, expressing a wish that he and 'his lovely young lady' have a pleasant night. He can see the gleefulness in her eyes and knows that he has failed to convince the avid gossipmonger that she had not just found a new rumour to spread. If it was even possible to begin with – discovering one of the royal princes alone with a maiden in a secluded corner is prime material for gossip, especially when it is a prince about whom there is usually little to talk about except that he has shouted at someone in public again.

Berating lady Maquetimië and himself in his mind, Carnistir sits down again next to Tuilindien, but the quiet enchantment that had existed between them, lending a measure of grace to his behaviour and words and making her listen to him with such rapt attention, has passed. He feels awkward and she stares at her hands. Neither knows what to say.

After a moment's silence, Carnistir says morosely, 'My mother doesn't even like her, I am certain they have not talked, she has just been eavesdropping on her just like she sneaked in on us. Damn it, I should have done more to make her think that there is nothing worth gossiping about here.'

'You do need to be angry on my behalf', Tuilindien offers, uneasy with his crossness. 'I am a stranger here, and not of much consequence. But I am sorry if being seen with me will cause you difficulty.'

'Oh, I don't care about gossips', he says with a dismissive movement of his arm. 'All they ever say about me is that I have a terrible temper.' So being gossiped about being seen with a maiden would, in principle at least, be an improvement. 'But I would not want it might make your stay here unpleasant.'

She does dislike the idea of becoming an object of whispered rumours, though she tried to downplay it. Yet, as she tells him, she will be spending only part of her time at the court, and loremasters are not ones to indulge in gossiping.

Both of them find it difficult now to find topics of conversation, and impossible to find any laughter at all, and after a while Tuilindien says, 'That lady did have a point: we have been here for a long time. I think I, at least, should go in; your mother might not worry when you disappear, but my family will be wondering if I have managed to get lost in this big palace.'

He seems very reluctant, yet he stands up and offers her his hand. 'I can show you the way back, so you do not indeed become lost.'

She looks at his outstretched hand, large and strong-looking, adorned by one wide silver ring and a few freckles. She can imagine how very warm that hand would feel holding her own…

But she is a courtier's daughter, manners and etiquette instilled in her since she was an infant. She says softly and reluctantly, 'I believe we had better go in separately in order to not add to the rumours.'

He withdraws his hand and says, 'Of course', but he seems unhappy.

His unhappiness hurts her  – another odd thing to think about when her head clears – so she tells him, 'I am happy that you happened upon my hiding place. I have very much enjoyed talking with you.' As she too stands up, she smiles at him and with her smile, tries to tell him that if it were not for other people, she would gladly walk through the garden with her hand on his arm or even in his hand.

He does seem to brighten up a little, though his frown remains. 'You can go first, since your family worries more.'

'Thank you. You have made me feel very welcome in Tirion.'

Carnistir does not like this last compliment very much; it sounds impersonal and has little to do with why he really spoke with her so long. But he supposes that she is behaving like she should, observing all the little rules that he finds so exasperating and saying the empty formal things that he tends to forget. He takes solace in her having also said that she is happy that he had found her, words which he much preferred.

But now he must say something, for she is about to leave. 'I am also glad that I happened upon you, Ingolmiel.'

Then she is gone with another shy smile, and he stands there for many moments cursing himself for not saying more, although he does not know what that _more_ would have been. He could hardly have asked her to never leave, though that was what he wanted.

When enough time has passed that he thinks she must have found her way back to the ballroom even if she did get lost along the way a few times, he goes in as well and looks for his mother. He doesn't have time to do more than nod at her before an irate and uncharacteristically flustered Curufinwë descends upon him.

'Where were you all this time?' hisses Curufinwë angrily. 'When you could not be found, mother made me dance with all those girls that you should have been dancing with. Twelve of them, eight Vanyarin, and three giggled the entire time!'

Carnistir looks at Curufinwë condescendingly, though it has become more difficult since his little brother grew to be as tall as he is. 'Well, it is high time you grew up and embraced your responsibilities.'

'You are not embracing yours – you escaped somewhere for the whole night!'

'I have been doing it for years. It was your turn.'

Before Curufinwë can protest again, Tyelkormo appears behind them and throws his arms on his brothers' shoulders.

'I think we have done our duty by showing our faces this long. What say you, brothers, if we leave this party and go somewhere where there is something stronger than wine to partake of?'

From Tyelko's manner that is even more exuberant than usual Carnistir can tell that he has already been partaking of the wine quite liberally. Curufinwë can see it as well.

'Best get him out of here', he says dryly to Carnistir. 'Before mother or grandfather sees him.'

Carnistir does not object. He has certainly got all the enjoyment out of this party that he possibly could, much more than he expected in fact.

So he agrees with his brothers and the three of them leave, Tyelko and Curvo arguing about which tavern to go to. Carnistir doesn't voice an opinion – he doesn't care and besides, as they leave the room he is busy looking around to see Tuilindien again. But if she is there, he cannot tell her slender golden-haired figure from the dozens of other Vanyar in the room.

Tuilindien sees him and watches him go with his brothers. She wishes she could leave the party too, and then in the peace of her own bedchamber make sense of all the confusing new emotions swirling inside her.

But when she finally does get to take off her formal dress, brush her hair down and go to bed, everything is already clear. The dark prince who found her in the garden is something special to her, something unlooked for, a very unlikely discovery, yet precious after only one night. To her surprise it is easy to fall asleep.

Her dreams that night, and on many following nights, are of wandering in a strange place looking for something. It is as if something is calling out to her, and she does not know the way there yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised when finishing this chapter after having laid it aside for a long time that I refer to Tyelkormo drinking heavily both here and in Sparks fly out. So I guess that my (wholly accidental) headcanon is that Tyelko is within the House of Fëanor that one person in the family who always gets more drunk than everyone else… (This chapter mirrors a scene in Sparks fly out in some other ways as well. Partially it's intentional but also, I'm a lazy writer.)
> 
> About name usage, for those who are interested in such things: as you may have noticed, I'm utilising the practice that father-names (Morifinwë for Carnistir, Ingolmiel for Tuilindien) are used in formal contexts: between strangers, between people of different stations, and to create and maintain an emotional distance. Mother-names, shortened versions of father-names and _epessi_ are used between friends, lovers and family members, and using them requires either explicit or tacit permission. This almost certainly isn't what Tolkien meant his complicated Quenya naming conventions to amount to (it's too simplistic, for one; Tolkien liked nothing if not complexity when it came to names) but it seems to me a sensible way for a fan writer to use these many different names. In the name of honesty I must also admit that I'm not sure whether I came up with this practice myself or if I unconsciously adopted it from another fic.
> 
> In the next chapter: Carnistir's attempts at romantic crafting - because love poetry really isn't his style - featuring an extremely snarky Curufinwë.


	3. Gemstones for a gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnistir discovers that he cannot bear the thought of not seeing Tuilindien again, and takes action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who liked my take on Curufin in [Sparks fly out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8520295/chapters/19530187) will enjoy his appearance in this chapter. This is actually the first time I ever wrote about Curufin being snarky and devious, and I loved it so much that I went on to write his own love story. Which I then managed to finish before this fic.
> 
> This chapter starts with angstbaby Carnistir but I promise he gets better from there. Also, the Noldor admiring the Vanyar's golden hair is canon. _Fëa_ =spirit/soul.

In the days following the party at Finwë's palace Carnistir is in a constantly foul mood. He communicates with his family mainly by monosyllables, bars the Ambarussar from his room where they usually are welcome, and mopes by turns at home and at the smithy, apparently incapable of concentrating on any work. He knows exactly why he feels restless and unhappy, but he does not know what to do about it, so being aware of the cause of his moodiness hardly helps.

He cannot stop thinking about the girl in the garden. At night he finds sleep hard to come by and when he manages to fall asleep she haunts his dreams with glimpses of her soft laugh and her golden hair just out of reach of his touch. He has never found it as easy or _pleasant_ to talk with anyone who wasn't family or an old friend, and never at all with a young woman.

He wants to see her again, hear her voice and feel her attention on him again, and he also wants many things that he did not get to do during those hours in the garden. To touch her shining hair, touch her all over, kiss her lips that looked so soft, to see in her eyes the same burning need that he now feels for her though he has seen her but once and did not even know of her existence a week ago.

He has never felt like this before, but he knows what all these wants and desires mean. Among the Eldar, to desire is to love. To fulfil these kinds of desires is to marry. Usually desire comes only after a time of feeling affection, friendship and kinship of souls, but it is just like him to rush through all of those straight into desire during the first meeting. Not that he does not feel those other, less carnal emotions as well. They are all tangled up within him and almost too much to bear, and that is why he snaps at his family and seeks solitude while he tries to make sense of and control all these feelings.

It is not made easier by the fact that she is a Vanya. No matter how much her hair of gleaming gold fascinates him, her being of that folk is more of a problem than a good thing. His father will be far from pleased when he learns that one of his sons has his eye set on a Vanyarin girl, and Carnistir is confused about that himself. All his life he has had a vague idea, no doubt because of his father's influence, that the Vanyar are prudish bores who get little of worth done. Yet when he had talked with Tuilindien he had hardly remembered that she was not of his own people.

The only conclusion he comes to is that he needs to see her again. Needs it to stay sane, to get out of this overwhelming state of fearing a future where he never looks upon her again. The thought of that is simply intolerable.

But he does not know how to get the future he wants, and he is scared to death that she does not feel as he does, that their hours in the palace garden were for her nothing but a mildly pleasant way to pass the time at a dull party. He would wish his feelings gone if they did not also bring him an exhilarating sense of bliss alongside the fear and uncertainty.

As days go by and he still does not know what to do, his fear of losing her – or rather, never even having a chance of having her – grows, as he knows that every moment that passes is one moment less that she will remain in Tirion.

The fifth day after the party, when he has just about resolved to do something, anything, there is a knock on the door of his room. He has hid there all day, in turns pacing around and lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, and even attempting several times to write a letter only to consign all his attempts into the fireplace.

'Go away', he shouts at whoever is at the door. Probably the twins again.

'I would like you to let me in, Carnistir.' His mother's voice is gentle but firm. Nerdanel has allowed his moody fourth son to wallow in solitude for days, but now she is determined to find out what ails him and to help him if she can.

Carnistir sighs, runs a hand through his untidy hair and goes to open the door.

'Good day, mother', he says resignedly.

'Good day to you too, my dear', and his mother first lays a food-laden tray on his desk and then comes to kiss his cheek. 'You did not come to breakfast or lunch, so I brought them to you.'

'I am not hun–', and after Nerdanel looks at him reprovingly, 'Thank you, mother.'

Nerdanel sits on an armchair and beckons Carnistir to the one next to it. 'I know you have needed time alone, but it hurts your father and me to see that you are unhappy. We would help you if we could.'

'Yet father isn't here.' Carnistir frowns, for his parents usually present a united front to their children. Then again, lately it has looked like there are cracks appearing in their concord.

'I thought that this is a conversation best had between you and me. For what distresses you – it is that Vanyarin girl from the king's party, is it not?'

Carnistir wants to groan. 'Does everyone know?'

'Some people do, since lady Maquetimië happened upon you two. But not everyone has heard the gossip, and I have done my best to convince everyone who has mentioned it to me that you were simply being a good host to a visiting maiden.'

'Thank you.'

'I did hear from one source that she appeared a little dishevelled when she returned to the party. I should know better than pay any heed to rumours, but – you did not rush to anything unwise, did you, my dear?'

'No!' He shouts the word, then apologises for it instantly. 'She got her hair tangled up in a rosebush, that is all, I promise.'

 _I have heard more likely stories,_ thinks Nerdanel and tries to keep her lips from curling into a smile. But she does trust her sons' honesty, even the most quick-tempered ones. 'I believe you, Carnistir.'

He takes a few deep breaths to calm down, something Nerdanel taught him when he was little.

After a moment of hesitation he says, 'I suppose father knows.' Fëanáro could not be pleased with his son's friendliness towards a Vanya, as he had harboured a dislike towards the entire people since his father took a princess of the Vanyar as his second wife.

'He knows, but he will not cause difficulty if you choose to seek out this girl again.' Nerdanel uses her strictest tone, the one reserved for misbehaving sons and unreasonable husband. Then she says in a softer voice, 'Will you?'

'I only met her once but I feel like she has been imprinted in my _fëa_ already.' Carnistir speaks quickly, passionately, without thinking about his words. 'So yes, I want to see her again. I suppose I must seek her out.' Carnistir turns his intense dark gaze to his mother's calm grey eyes. 'What do you think I should do, mother?'

Nerdanel is quiet for a moment, then says, 'If she were a Noldorin maiden living here in Tirion I would advise taking things slowly and gradually, perhaps waiting to see her again by chance before seeking her out. But she does not live here and you will likely not see her again for many years unless you arrange it.'

'I need to see her again. I don't understand it – I have never felt like this, like I will suffocate if she goes back to Taniquetil and I never see her again.' Carnistir buries his flaming face in his hands.

Nerdanel lays a hand on his shoulder. 'Do not let yourself suffocate, then. Get in touch with her, tell her that you would like to meet her.'

Carnistir makes a choking sound. He has thought of this countless times, but it feels so difficult. And frightening.

'I know it is scary, my dark dear one', Nerdanel says softly. 'But if you think you could find happiness with her, you must not let this hope slip out of your hands. Let her know that you care, and if she does too, you two have a chance.'

'How would I let her know?' He mumbles the words through his fingers, mortified and scared and angry with himself that he is feeling so weak and useless, like a child being comforted by his mother again.

'Seek her out at the palace or the library where she works. Or send a letter, or even send a gift. Gifts are traditional when courting.'

'I don't know if she wants to be courted. At all, or by me in particular.'

'She spoke with you for hours, did she not? That is no mere courtesy.' Nerdanel strokes Carnistir's messy black hair and thinks of how this fourth son of hers has always suffered for his passions, though before they have been of a different kind. It is just like Carnistir to fall in love at first sight and then be in agony over it.

'It was a miracle that we spoke so long. I am not good with words like father or Curvo or Maitimo, you know that, mother. I am afraid I will say something wrong and ruin everything. If I try to write a love letter... I am certain I will ruin it.'

'Then perhaps you should make something instead of writing. Can you think of a gift for her?'

Carnistir thinks of Tuilindien's beautiful hair that he could stare at for hours, and her little shell comb that had broken, and he tells his mother that he can think of something.

*

As soon as Nerdanel leaves, Carnistir starts planning his gift. Two delicate hair combs with little coloured gems for adornment. He sketches the design and lists the materials he will need, then wolfs down the food his mother brought and goes to bed early, finally feeling peaceful enough that sleep comes easily. This night his dreams of Tuilindien are more hopeful: when he calls after her, she does not seem to be fleeing him quite so quickly. The next day he sets to work on the hair decorations.

Making the combs themselves is easy enough as he has done just such ornaments before, as a begetting day gift for her mother a few years ago. For Nerdanel, he made combs of gold, but for Tuilindien's golden hair he will make ones of dark silver. But the little gems he wants to decorate the combs with prove tricky to make. For he wants them to be a specific shade of blue-green, and he just cannot get it right. All his attempts turn out too blue, too green, too dark or too pale.

By the third night he is working on the gemstones he is so frustrated that he tosses on the floor two more gems that didn't come out right and curses at them, just as Curufinwë steps in and looks around: at the gems on the workshop floor and his brother whose face is a deep red from both exertion and exasperation.

'I came to get some sketches that I forgot to take with me earlier, but now I see that there is high drama here to be entertained by. What's got to you?' Curufinwë picks up one of the gems on the floor. It had not broken when Carnistir threw it down, though it had not even completely cooled yet – Fëanáro teaches his sons better than to make things that break.

Curufinwë studies the little gem in his hand. 'You have been spending a lot more time in here than usually, and often very late. I might almost think you were working on some secret project.'

Carnistir knows that his younger brother, still an annoying brat even if he is technically of age, likes nothing better than uncovering his brothers' secrets and using those secrets against them, so he needs to be dissuaded from thinking that Carnistir is keeping anything from him. 'It is not a secret project. I'm just making some jewellery, and I like working when there are no idiots here to distract me.'

Curufinwë raises his one brow, supercilious and even more irritating than usually. 'You looked fairly distracted on your own just now.'

Carnistir growls at him.

'In any case, what is wrong with this gem? It looks just fine to me, even if it is your work.' Curufinwë flicks it at Carnistir, who catches it just in time.

'It's the wrong colour.'

'This jewellery of yours, it is a commission?'

'No.' Carnistir takes a cloth and wipes away some of the sweat on his face, then coughs because the cloth smells of the acrid chemicals he has been using to create the colours of the gems.

'Then if you haven't been asked for a certain colour, what does it matter if the hue isn't what you intended it to be?'

'It just matters, all right? I had a plan and I am sticking to it.'

Curufinwë strolls around the room, looking around, his brows knit as if he is trying to figure out something.

Carnistir grimly keeps an eye on him and thinks that he would give up quite a lot in exchange for a little brother whose favourite sport wasn't tormenting his family members.

Eventually Curufinwë spots on a side table the finished silver combs waiting for their adornments, as Carnistir knew he would. 'Oh, these are pretty.' Curufinwë's fingers brush their shining surface. 'Very... feminine. You don't often do women's ornaments, do you?'

Carnistir knows that nothing he says will help at this point, so he stays silent. His brother is already well on his way to the inevitable conclusion.

Curufinwë grins wickedly when he reaches it. 'Ah, of course. You're making them for that Vanya of yours.'

Carnistir feels like has to try once more after all. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Oh yes you do. That sweet little thing you talked to at grandfather's grand party. And not just talked to, sat with for hours – it has been a source of gossip. Quite unseemly, you know, staying sequestered in a quiet spot in the garden with a maiden for many hours.'

'I talked with a girl, that is all. There really was no cause for gossip and indeed there would be no gossip if that accursed old rumourmonger hadn't happened to pass by us', says Carnistir between ground teeth.

Curufinwë raises his brows again. 'Such vile language about the wife of one of grandfather's most respected advisors.'

'You called her worse two years ago when she spread the knowledge of your passing out in the long gallery at your coming of age celebration', says Carnistir and watches with great enjoyment as colour rises on Curufinwë's cheeks. Two can play at this game.

Carnistir smirks and turns back to the chemicals and his notes next to them. He writes down the proportions of the latest unsuccessful mixture and tries to figure out what to attempt next.

'So you really are stubborn or stupid enough – probably both, actually – that you won't ask for my help with the stones?'

Curufinwë's words surprise Carnistir, though they shouldn't. The relationship between them, though it largely consists of insults and bouts of violence, has always been scattered with moments of support. They don't talk about the things they do for each other, they don't thank each other, but there is still love between them even though they are not as close as Maitimo and Káno or indeed as close as Curufinwë is with Tyelkormo. Their parents have always encouraged their sons to be loyal to each other.

Curufinwë leans against the wall and crosses his arms on his chest. 'I'm really good with gems, you know.'

Unfortunately Carnistir knows this to be true. Though Curufinwë is only recently come of age, he already surpasses his older brothers in almost all crafting and he is especially talented with metalwork and gemstones.

And Carnistir really wants to get this project right. So he turns back to his younger brother and asks, in a voice somewhere between ire and resignation, 'Would you help?'

'For a price.' Curufinwë flashes him a brilliant smile. 'I know you can afford it.'

Curse his devious brother. But Carnistir can indeed afford it; he has always been far cleverer with money than any of his brothers, able to make small sums go far and big sums become bigger, and though procuring the materials for this comb project with its constant retries has been expensive, he still has plenty to spend. Curufinwë, on the other hand, is always in need of money despite his cleverness.

Unfortunately this does not mean that he is a bad negotiator, and he manages to extort quite a sum out of Carnistir in return for helping him capture the right colour. He even makes Carnistir write and sign a note acknowledging his debt.

'Very well, then', says Curufinwë, smirking in a very satisfied manner as he slips the note into his pocket. 'How many of these stones do you need?'

'Six in total, two bigger and four small.'

'So on each comb, a larger central stone and a smaller one flanking it on each side. Very basic design, brother, but with good craftsmanship it should be pretty enough for your pretty lady.'

Carnistir wonders if Makalaurë ever wanted to strangle any of his brothers when he was courting his future wife and they teased him about her. And then Carnistir admonishes himself for thinking that, because he really mustn't think of Tuilindien as _his_ future wife. It is just as likely that she will send the combs right back to him than go on to marry him.

'Well, what is the colour we're aiming at?' asks Curufinwë impatiently, and his annoying voice is very effective in returning Carnistir to the here and now. He goes to the small bowl where has gathered most of his failed attempts, picks out a few and shows them to Curufinwë.

'It should be greener than this and more blue than that one; this small one is closest to right hue, but it's a little too dark.'

Curufinwë studies them intently. 'No special powers, then, just pretty stones?' After Carnistir nods, Curufinwë does too. 'All right, let's get to work.'

Carnistir cannot help but be impressed by his little brother's talent. Curufinwë doesn't even consult Carnistir's earlier calculations or indeed write any of his own; instead, he just starts preparing and mixing chemicals seemingly by instinct, glancing every now and then at the gems Carnistir chose as examples. Carnistir's role is mostly as his assistant, doing as he is told. In just four hours and after only two unsuccessful attempts, they have all six stones completed in exactly the right hue and degree of luminosity.

'Well, that wasn't very hard, was it? Your head must be muddled by love that you could not do it own your own.' Ignoring Carnistir's thunderous look, Curufinwë washes his hands and then comes to look at the stones again. 'They should be ready to be set in two days' time.'

'I know that. My head is not muddled by anything.' Carnistir begins cleaning the workspace so they can get to their beds; it is very late.

Curufinwë just hums a little, looking at the small blue-green gems thoughtfully. Then he says, 'A dreadful thought occurs to me, brother. The reason these had to be exactly the right colour – it's not because it's the colour of her eyes, or a flower she likes, or something equally disgustingly sappy?'

'It is really none of your business. You will have your money tomorrow, and that is all you should be interested in.' Carnistir tries to keep his face hidden from Curufinwë. He is certain that he is as red as he has ever been, and never has he deplored his complexion as much as now. Attempting to court a woman would be quite embarrassing enough without his face proclaiming his every emotion to everyone around him.

Curufinwë guesses the truth anyway.

'Oh, it is something like that. Oh, the blessed Valar.' He actually sounds nauseous. 'This would be just like Makalaurë, and I might even expect something like this from Maitimo, but you – I thought one of your few virtues was that you didn't have a single sentimental bone in your body.'

 _That's it._ Carnistir's sorely tried temper snaps and he turns, grabs his brother by the collar and pushes him against the worktable. Curufinwë is strong from hours spent at the forge every day and as tall as Carnistir, but Carnistir is also strong, and he is broader and a lot angrier.

'You are a stupid brat', he hisses at Curufinwë's face, 'and one day when you meet a girl that you just have to see again, you will understand, and you can be sure that I will not lift a finger to help you, no matter how much you'd pay me.' Carnistir lets go of Curufinwë, who has been too surprised to fight back much so far, and tosses his apron on the table. 'You'll finish cleaning up. I am certainly paying you enough to include that.'

Carnistir picks up the cooling gemstones, handling them gently despite his fury, then storms out without even a glance at Curufinwë who leans back against the table with an astonished look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who'd have guessed that under Carnistir's surly exterior beats the heart of a romantic? He would break the nose of anyone who said that to him, of course. And if was Curufin saying it, Carnistir would break his jaw, too.
> 
> The end of this chapter may have seemed familiar to those who have read Sparks fly out: it was referenced in chapter 8.
> 
> In the next chapter: more sibling interactions, this time of feminine variety between Tuilindien and her sisters as she receives Caranthir's gift.


	4. Words whispered and written

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuilindien receives a gift, talks with her sisters and writes a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know very little about the Vanyar because they are content with the way things are in the Silmarillion and thus don't get up to anything interesting, but I tried to include some little things here that are based on what meagre information we have about them and their culture.
> 
> It might be terribly clichéd that I gave Tuilindien several sisters as a counterbalance to Carnistir's six brothers, but let's be real, Tolkien's cast of characters is such a testosterone storm that a few female OCs are like a drop in the ocean.
> 
> This chapter is basically the counterpart to the last one, but there is some plot (hah) development as well. I will hand out virtual cookies to everyone who spots the Jane Austen quote I sneaked in!

Over a week passes before Tuilindien hears anything of Morifinwë except rumours. People repeat to her gossip about them that is dressed up as compliments.

'What an honour for you that you were singled out for attention by one of the hardest-to-please princes of our people', she is told by a beautiful Noldorin courtier with a smile as sharp as a predator's teeth.

'I must say I was surprised to hear that Morifinwë found one among the Vanyar that appealed to his tastes. You must have been particularly charming that night', says her own uncle, her mother's brother who has never approved of his second-eldest niece's decision to pursue a life of scholarship rather than courtly affairs. His compliments are always laced with poison, and people like him are certainly part of the reason she spends no more time in court than she has to.

Thankfully Tuilindien's mother, just as capable of being acerbic when she wants to, also has a gentler side. When she sees that her daughter is uncomfortable with this sort of talk, she does her best to shield her from it, skilfully enough that few spot her deflections.

Tuilindien does her best to avoid the gossips and to concentrate on her work. She tries to ignore the sadness that grows every day that she hears nothing from Carnistir, and to use the opportunities she has to hone and polish her commentary and forthcoming presentation. She meets with Rúmil and discusses her work with others as well and offers her own opinions, shyly expressed but well received, to other scholars on their projects.

Still, even though her days are filled with interesting work that is all she had hoped for, she finds herself missing something. (This is why the rumours hurt her: she is getting scared that they are as unfounded as she claims them to be.) She finds herself a little vexed with this: her studies and work have been her only passion so far, and she had been looking forward to this visit for a long time. Yet now her work is… if not overshadowed, at least accompanied by a desire for _more_.

At the end of each day Tuilindien retires to the bedchamber she shares with her younger sister – there are so many Vanyarin visitors that not all young people have been given a room of their own – and sees to it that her little sister washes her face and says her prayers, and then she sits at her bedside and sings her a little song to help her sleep. At home, Cirincë had already declared herself far too old for good-night songs, but here in a strange place she is happy to listen to an old song that reminds her of home.

But as Tuilindien strokes her sister's hair and sings her of Manwë's littlest birds frolicking in the air, her own thoughts are very far from the treelight-washed slopes of Taniquetil. They are with a dark-haired, dark-eyed Noldo who at this moment must be in some other room in this city and seems to have no thought of her, judging from his silence. She had expected him to have contacted her by now – surely she could not have misread all the strong emotions she had seen in his eyes?

She should perhaps take the first step herself, send him a letter or something like that. But she is a stranger here, not certain if the Noldor's customs are the same as her own people's, and he is of higher rank than she. And if she is quite honest with herself, she is scared.

Perhaps it would be best if she never saw him again and their hours in the garden faded to a pleasant memory, for to pursue anything with him would be complicated. Yet –

She comes to the end of her song: all the little birds have gone to rest on tree branches. 'Good night, my dear. May your dreams be blessed.'

Cirincë pushes strands of red-blonde hair away from her face and looks up at her big sister. 'Is everything all right, Tuilë?' she asks with a yawn. She is perceptive for one so young.

'Everything is all right', Tuilindien reassures her gently. 'I was just thinking about something.'

'Don't think, go to sleep', Cirincë advises her sleepily.

Tuilindien chuckles and bends down to press a kiss on Cirincë's forehead. 'I will.'

She lies down on her own bed and watches, in the streams of silver light that come in between the curtains, as her little sister soon finds her way to Lórien, her face and form relaxing and her steady breathing the only sound in the room.

Cirincë is a little sweetheart and very dear to Tuilindien, and she is selfishly glad that she is allowing herself to be babied again here in Tirion. Showering someone with love feels good right now. _I should like to be a mother_ , Tuilindien thinks, startling herself a little with the thought. She has been happy to care for her younger sisters so far, sparing little thought yet for any children she might have herself one day. But then she never before had a specific man to think about as her children's father…

 _No_ , she tells herself strictly. _I will not allow my imagination to jump from admiration to love and from love to matrimony so fast; it is foolishness and will bring me no happiness. Not when I have not even seen him but once._

_I should write to him tomorrow. What do I have to lose?_

*

But when tomorrow comes, it brings with it a letter and a package. They are waiting for her at the breakfast table; she opens the letter but lays the package aside to be opened later, in private.

Very aware that many people are staring at her and that she must be looking quite flustered, she reads Morifinwë's letter – or rather a note, for it is very short. It is also very artless, and written in a bold hand so forcefully that it looks like the quill has almost gone through the parchment.

_Lady Ingolmiel,_

_I hope that you will not mind me contacting you. I would have done it sooner but I wanted to finish these first. I hope you like them._

_Morifinwë Carnistir_

Burning with curiosity and filled with a sense of elation that makes her smile and also makes her very bad breakfast company, for she replies distractedly and too late to everything that is said to her, Tuilindien leaves the table as soon as she can and in the privacy of her own chamber opens the package.

Inside, wrapped in a piece of white silk, is a pair of lovely hair combs made of shining silver and adorned by small glittering gemstones. The gems are very beautiful, and they are… the colour of her eyes. The shade is so exactly the same that it cannot be an accident.

It is the silliest thing, but the lovely objects make her want to cry. He has himself made these for her, a beautiful gift full of meaning. In the garden, her old hair comb had broken in his hand and he had been so apologetic for it, though it was hardly his fault, _and_ he had remembered the colour of her eyes…

The Noldor are well known for their skill in all manner of crafts, but surely even they do not give gifts like this without important reason. Tuilindien feels that her fears must have been in vain; surely this meaningful gift is all the sentiment in his eyes given tangible form.

She sits on the edge of her bed for a moment longer, just looking at the combs and basking in their loveliness and the happiness it brings. Then she gets up, hurries to the mirror and starts arranging her hair into a hairstyle that displays the combs to their advantage. In her hurry and excitement she soon messes up the complicated arrangement she is attempting to create, and she has to unravel it.

As she extricates the combs from her tangled tresses, grimacing from the pull on her scalp, Cirincë returns from breakfast. She slips into the room and announces that their mother had told her to change into more practical clothes, since she will be spending the day studying under her father's tutelage.

As the younger girl goes to pull out another dress from the chest next to the dressing-table and mirror she notices her sister's new ornaments.

'Where did those come from?'

'They were a gift', Tuilindien says and brushes her hair out to start over.

'Were they in the package you got at breakfast? Who are they from?' Cirincë looks at Tuilindien with her head tilted to one side and her eyes bright as the little bird's she was named after.

'They're from… someone I met at the big party when we first came here.'

Cirincë takes one of the combs carefully in her hand and studies it. 'They are very pretty, I don't have anything this pretty. Why did the person send them to you?'

What to say to that, especially to her little sister? 'He thought I might like them.'

'Hmm.' Cirincë looks at her big sister who is now again trying to style her hair elegantly and failing once more, and offers, 'I could put them in your hair in that simple way you taught me.'

Tuilindien hesitates for only a moment. She does not seem to be managing herself, and even if Cirincë's handiwork is clumsy, Tuilindien will be spending most of her day in the library where few will notice if her simple hairstyle is a little inexpertly done. 'Thank you, I would be grateful.'

*

Tuilindien had thought that the day would pass very slowly, but instead the hours she spends at the library are gone much sooner than she expects. When she returns to her bedchamber late in the afternoon, she has not yet found the words she will respond to Morifinwë's letter with, though the thought of his gift has been hovering at the edges of her consciousness all day.

She is deep in thought when she opens the door to the chamber she shares with Cirincë. Hearing a delighted little shriek, she looks up and instead of one sister she sees all three in the room. Cirincë is perched on the wide windowsill, scribbling on a piece of parchment and looking out the window into the courtyard below, and Lirulinë, the eldest, is sitting in an armchair and bouncing grinning baby Cantiel on her lap.

Tuilindien greets them and asks, as politely as her desire to be left alone and in peace to write her letter to Morifinwë allows, why they are all here.

'I am looking after the little ones while mother attends a council', says Lirulinë and walks to Tuilindien with the baby. Cantiel reaches out her small fists and gurgles joyfully at her second-eldest sister, and Tuilindien takes her from Lirulinë, answering her baby sister's happy smile with one of her own.

As the baby begins playing with Tuilindien's hair, Lirulinë's gaze is drawn to the combs holding her sister's curls in place.

'Cirincë mentioned that you received a gift this morning.' Lirulinë does not bother to conceal the curiosity in her voice, and it would indeed be in vain, for Tuilindien knows her inquisitive nature.

Tuilindien extracts a strand of her hair from Cantiel's slightly sticky grasp and waits for the questions that she knows will be forthcoming.

'They are very beautiful', Lirulinë says, nodding at the combs. 'Are they from prince Morifinwë? I heard that he does not have his father's talent for craft –'

'No one does; Fëanáro's talent is famously unparalleled. But Morifinwë is still very skilled in many crafts.'

As Tuilindien leaps quickly to Morifinwë's defence, Lirulinë's eyes shine with glee and triumph as they tend to do when she uncovers something she had wanted to know, but Tuilindien does not mind. Though her sister does not have the wisdom their mother is famous for, not yet at least, Tuilindien knows that she will give good advice once her curiosity has been sated.

And now that it seems that her hopes were not in vain, Tuilindien is happy to tell her older sister that prince Morifinwë had indeed sent her the combs, along with a note that she has not yet responded to.

'I must say that I am happy the rumours I heard of you being seen in the garden with a young man were true, for it would have been a pity for you to have spent the evening all alone after spurning the perfectly pleasant dance partners I had chosen for you', Lirulinë teases her now.

'I wonder that you have kept your curiosity about it in check this far', Tuilindien says wryly.

'Only because mother told me to. What did the prince's note say, then?'

'Very little.' Tuilindien hesitates for a moment, then hands the baby back to Lirulinë to take Morifinwë's note out of the pocket of her skirt.

She shows it to Lirulinë, nervous and hopeful that her sister will have some ideas on how to reply to Morifinwë.

'He seems a man of few words', says Lirulinë after a moment, but her eyes flicker again to the combs in her sister's hair.

Tuilindien pulls them out very carefully, holds them in her hands and looks down at them, enjoying the sheen of silver and the glitter of gems. Face half-hidden by the golden curtain of her hair that fell forward when she removed the combs, she mutters, 'I am not certain what to say in my letter of reply to him, besides thank you.'

Lirulinë hums a little tune, whether to the baby or to Tuilindien, Tuilindien is not sure. 'Do you have any advice for me?' Tuilindien prompts her sister.

'No', says Lirulinë simply and goes to gather her shawl from the armchair where she had left it.

Tuilindien says, confused, 'For the last few years you have always had advice about men for me, even though it was mostly unwanted, yet now when I ask you will say nothing?'

'It is not for me to speak for your heart', Lirulinë says, and they both smile at how much she sounds like their mother. 'In truth, you must decide for yourself how you want to go on. I will only say: do be careful, sister. You are young, and he is not of our people, and I have heard things about him that are a little unsettling.'

'About his temper, you mean?' Tuilindien has heard a few murmurs too.

Lirulinë nods, her shapely brows drawing into a little frown. 'They say he can be rather… harsh.' Her gaze returns once more to the hair combs. 'But then I think your heart has already decided for you. For you wore his gift immediately, did you not?'

And instead of waiting for an answer, Lirulinë calls to Cirincë who hops down from the windowsill and shows her drawing of the fountain in the courtyard to her older sisters. They give her many compliments and a few suggestions for improvement, and then Lirulinë takes Cirincë and Cantiel elsewhere to let Tuilindien write her letter in peace.

Tuilindien sits down at the unpractical desk that has been provided in the guest bedrooms, pulls up a sheet of parchment and dips the quill in ink. For some reason her hand is unsteady and a big drop of ink falls on the parchment.

As she watches the drop turn into a blossoming shape, she looks for the right words.

He asked for nothing in return for his beautiful, expensive gift; it might have been easier if he had, for then she would have something to respond to.

Perhaps she will just put down one word at a time until she finds the right thing to say; that is sometimes the only way when inspiration does not arrive.

In any case, the first two lines are easy enough.

_Prince Morifinwë,_

_I have received your beautiful gift._

'Beautiful gift' can still be considered ordinary politeness, but if she compliments the combs more, in detail, he will know that she appreciates them more than politeness demands.

_The combs are among the most lovely things I have ever owned._

It is true, though part of their charm is what a wonderful surprise they were after many days of silence, how meaningful a gift they seem, and the short, clumsy and heartfelt letter that had arrived with them.

Tuilindien is studying to be a loremistress, an expert on words, but finding the right words now feels nigh impossible.

_I was delighted to hear from you, and to receive such a beautiful gift was a lovely surprise._

No. She crosses the sentence over. It is too much and too little at the same time, and she has already used the words 'beautiful gift'. And 'lovely'.

Perhaps she can praise the combs a little more.

_The little gems glitter brighter than starlight, and though I have so far had no chance to wear the combs except amongst family, I have received many compliments on them. You were far too modest about your own skills when we spoke._

That is better. But what now? Not much more, since his note had been so very short, but a sentence or two to end the letter gracefully.

 _I am honoured to have made your acquaintance_. Words fit to be said to a prince, she thinks, the courtier's daughter that she is. But words which can also be read to mean 'I am glad to have met you', which is indeed what she means, the wordsmith in her forging double meanings.

How bold can she be? Can she express a wish to see him again? He had after all sent her such a wonderful gift that it had to be more than mere politeness on his part. So she should be bold too, a little at least, for she has given up on the idea that it would be better to just try to forget him. After the intense burst of happiness and joy that his note and gift brought her, never seeing him again does not feel like an option anymore.

 _I will be in Tirion for four weeks longer_ , she writes. _Perhaps we shall see each other again_. There, that is perfectly decorous.

But then she adds, because she cannot stop her treacherous fingers from dipping the quill in ink again and going back to the parchment as if of their own volition, _I hope we will_.

She has to rewrite the letter because she changed some sentences and words on the first try and the result is very messy, and when she does she leaves that last little sentence in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuilindien's good-night song to her little sister was inspired by [this adorable fanart](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/155186163281/ten-thousand-leaves-ok-but-can-we-talk-about) that points out that Manwë is not just the lord of eagles and other majestic birds, but also of little fluffballs. As always, OC names crafted with the help of the wonderful [realelvish.net](http://realelvish.net). I really like elf babies, they keep sneaking into my stories.
> 
> In the next chapter: elven dating, which can be just as terrible and embarrassing as real-world dating.


	5. A walk by your side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courting doesn't come naturally to Carnistir, but he is determined to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was as much of a struggle for me as writing letters is to Caranthir, but I managed it in the end just like he does. Strictly speaking, pretty much nothing happens in this chapter, but it's still an important step forward for our would-be lovebirds.
> 
> If you want to know how I see the sons of Fëanor in my head when I write about them, check out [my headcanons on Tumblr](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/155738551306/tolkien-meta-rambling-headcanons-for-appearances)!
> 
>  _The Mindon [Eldaliéva]_ = a great tower in the middle of Tirion that once belonged to Ingwë, king of the Vanyar and all Eldar.

It is far from ideal that Curufinwë knows of Carnistir's sending a gift to Tuilindien, and Tyelkormo is likely to know as well the next day at the latest since Curufinwë often shares the secrets he hoards with his favourite brother. Knowing he has to take action to prevent his nosy brothers reading Tuilindien's answering letter before he does, Carnistir bribes several servants – the ones most likely to take hold of letters arriving at the house – and makes them swear that they will not give any letters addressed to him into anyone else's possession, not even if they promise to deliver them to him.

Since Curufinwë grew from conniving child to scheming adult, Carnistir has had to learn to contend with his deviousness as well as Tyelko's more straightforward tormenting of his brothers. (Although Tyelko only bullies his brothers when he happens to be in the mood. He is  very nice brother to have at times and a horrible one at others whereas Curvo is almost always a nuisance, to Carnistir at least).

Thus the bribing of the servants. Curvo is probably, hopefully, too arrogant to actually pay them to give him Carnistir's letters, having faith in his ability to manipulate and deceive them into doing it; Carnistir trusts that his bribing them first prevents this.

But he is not absolutely certain of that, and in any case he is nervous of what Tuilindien's reply will be, so the moment of peace he feels after sending the package is short-lived, and then he is back to the restlessness and surliness that is often his mood. But at least he is not miserable anymore, and finds himself capable of behaving and working more or less normally until Tuilindien's letter arrives in the evening.

And he is the one to receive it, unopened and untampered with, and as soon as he gets it into his hands he hastens to his room, locks the door and cracks open the seal.

The letter is not all that long – though his own had been barely two lines, so he couldn't expect much, he supposes – and it is fairly formal. He is disappointed for a moment, then reminds himself that it could hardly be anything else. Tuilindien had seemed a very well brought-up girl and would hardly write words of burning passion to him even if she felt that way, would she? And, well, she almost certainly doesn't.

(Because she is not an impatient fool like he, whose dreams of her are becoming more vivid and more unsettling every night.)

He suppresses his disappointment at her more formal word choices, and the twinge of irritation he feels at having had to ask Curufinwë for help with the gems Tuilindien seems very impressed by. Instead he savours the last sentence, the only one he really cares about. _She hopes to see me again._

It is exactly what he wanted to hear, yet it brings a resurgence of the panic he felt when he didn't know what to do about her. Because now it is clear that he can and must arrange a meeting, and he really wants to, but doesn't quite know how to do it – where to meet her, what to do with her, how to ask her.

For a moment he very much wants to ask his mother, or Makalaurë, his only married brother, for advice, but he quashes that impulse. It will not do to have to ask for help with every single thing in wooing Tuilindien.

Who would have thought that he would be the second of the seven of them to court a woman? No one, for sure, and least of all he himself. And he is certainly ill suited for it, but determined to do it anyway, and he has plenty of obstinacy to keep him going. Awkwardness is nothing new to him and a small price to pay for a chance of happiness, of making his dreams reality.

That is what he tells himself when, seated at his desk to write another letter to Tuilindien, he has to struggle and grapple with words to find the right ones to ask her to come for a walk with him.

*

Three days later he paces in front of the Mindon, waiting for her to show up. It is late in the afternoon, not yet Mingling but a late enough hour that Laurelin's light is soft and subtle. Tuilindien had requested that they meet after her day's work at the library is over, and it suited him well enough not to miss work of his own. Though he would deviate from his routines for her, it is better not to have to, for the Valar know he has to endure quite enough sniggering from his brothers and glowering from his father anyway.

 _I must remember to call her Ingolmiel_ , he reminds himself. He has been thinking of her as Tuilindien, because that name feels more personal – Ingolmiel, 'scholar's daughter', sounds more like a description of her than a name that is _hers_. But he has no right or permission to address her as Tuilindien yet. He hopes to gain that permission soon.

Tuilindien is a little late from their agreed meeting time and he is just about to become cross when she appears, walking towards him swiftly with her skirts swishing. She is simply dressed, wearing few ornaments as the Vanyar tend to, but he can see already from afar the glint of silver in her hair of dark gold.

Seeing that she is wearing his gift disperses most of the anxieties that have still been plaguing him, for even he, who is hardly an expert in matters of courting, knows that to wear a would-be lover's gift sends a clear message.

She is even more lovely in golden light that she was in the silver-lit garden, and all the more beautiful for being here for him. Fortunately she begins talking at once when she reaches his side so he has a moment to just admire her, and the sight of his handiwork in her coiffure.

'Please forgive me for being late, my lord. One of the librarians insisted on explaining to me how their classification system works just when I was leaving, though I tried to tell her that I did not need to know the inner workings of their no doubt excellent system.'

The formal way she addresses him doesn't please him much, but her sincere tone and the becoming flush on her cheeks does.

'The important thing is that you are here now, Ingolmiel. I am very glad to see you.'

'As am I to see you.'

They stand there for a moment, almost but not quite looking at each other in charged silence until she breaks it.

'Thank you again for the combs.' Her hand creeps to her hair to touch the ornaments that are keeping her arrangement of thick braids in place. 'I have found myself wearing them almost constantly since receiving them, but luckily they are so very lovely that I'm sure that their charm will not wear out quickly.'

'I'm very glad that you like them. I must admit though, in the name of honesty and because if you ever meet him, he will brag about it – my brother Curufinwë helped me with making the gems. I struggled with getting the colour right.'

To Tuilindien, his straightforward honesty is both endearing and disconcerting for being so different from the circuitous courtly discourse she is used to.

'Having had help makes the gift no less valuable, for though the combs themselves are beautiful, what I appreciate most is that you chose to make them for me. And that you chose the colour…'

'I had never before seen anyone with eyes that colour.'

So she had been right that the gems were meant to echo the hue of her eyes. It warms her whole being.  _He is being so very sincere with me; perhaps the best policy would be for me to do the same._

'That you remembered it means much to me', she tells him and watches his face brighten. Seeing his happiness warms her further. _Yes, this is what I should keep doing_ ; _this must be part of our courting as much as gifts and walks and such things. Letting each other know that we appreciate the things the other doing is important, because it seems that he and I both are prone to insecurity, to doubting that the other one feels as much_.

After another short moment of just standing close to one another, revelling in each other's presence, he remembers to offer her his arm. As she places her hand on it she looks up at him, smiling, and asks, 'So where are you taking me today?'

*

Halfway to the park he is taking her to he asks her to call him Carnistir rather than 'my lord' or 'prince Morifinwë'; she seems happy to agree and tells him to call her Tuilindien, 'or Tuilë, that is what my family and friends often call me'.

All in all things are going rather well, Carnistir thinks, when they arrive in the large park where graceful statues and little fountains dot the yellowing autumn grass under the boughs of trees whose leaves are likewise turning from green to gold. It is one of the less tamed and regimented parks in the city, the trees growing where they will as in a natural forest instead of carefully planted rows. It has always been one Carnistir's favourite places in Tirion.

'This looks like a lovely park', Tuilindien notes as he leads her onto a narrow path between the trees. 'The statues and other art seem to meld together with the nature.'

'That is the intention. There are some pieces of my mother's this way…'

He tells her about his mother's sculptures but when they come to other artists' works he finds he is more interested in hearing about her. He asks how her time in Tirion has been.

'Very busy', she replies, and tells him of her days spent exploring the libraries of Tirion and nights spent at various social events. 'There seems to be a never-ending procession of entertainments organised for us visitors.'

Carnistir feels a little uncomfortable as he remembers how many of those events his father has excused his family from on such thin pretexts that they don't fool even Finwë who is always predisposed to believe the best of his eldest son, and they must hurt Indis who has spent a lot of time and effort making preparations for this meeting of two kings and two peoples.

The thought of his father throws a shadow over Carnistir's joy in being here with Tuilindien. He had half expected his father to suddenly appear to stop him when he was leaving the house. But Fëanáro had not stopped him from going, though he looked little pleased with Carnistir when they last saw each other at the breakfast table, and the slight fear he still feels that Fëanáro will turn up and drag him back home is quite irrational.

(Less crucially but also to Carnistir's delight, Curufinwë departed soon after breakfast to stay and have lessons with grandfather Mahtan for a few weeks, thus rendering further bribing of servants unnecessary. Tyelkormo tends to lose interest in schemes quickly when his more devious co-conspirator is gone.)

He pushes the nervousness and irritation with his family aside and concentrates his attention on the woman beside him. Her arm is a delightful little weight on his, and their steps fit together with surprising ease. She asks what he has been working on since their first meeting, and he tells her that he has been continuing with his redesigns of the family workshop.

'I managed to negotiate quite a good deal on some high-quality sandstone', he says and realises two seconds too late that this is another of those things, like forge ventilation, that probably doesn't interest her. Yet once again she seems to be listening anyway, appearing as interested in learning about him as he is about her.

Indeed, their conversation today appears to be about getting to know each other, more purposefully now that they have chosen to see each other rather than ending up in the same corner of a garden by accident.

'Do you work with stone yourself?' Tuilindien asks.

'Yes, I've found I prefer that to most other work.'

They tread most of the paths in the large park while he tells her that he only settled on stonework after trying many different crafts since childhood under the tutelage of various relatives – the working of metal and stone with both Fëanáro and Mahtan, sculpting with Nerdanel, woodworking with one of Nerdanel's brothers, even needlework with a tutor Fëanáro engaged after he suggested Carnistir might have inherited grandmother Míriel's talent for it. It turned out he hadn't, but he liked it well enough.

'I even went to Oromë's house with Tyelkormo a few times, but that ended in Tyelko's hound having to keep us apart and stop us using our hunting knives on each other', Carnistir admits with a grimace.

'Oh.' Tuilindien looks like she doesn't know whether to look amused or horrified. 'That sounds like a very smart hound.'

When Carnistir tells her that Huan is one of Oromë's own hunting dogs that he gifted to Tyelkormo, a look of reverence spreads on her face. 'Your brother has received a great honour from the Huntsman', she says solemnly.

Carnistir hasn't really thought about it that way; to him, Tyelkormo is just the most annoying of his older brothers. Somewhat grudgingly he admits that Tyelko seems to have a real passion for woodsmanship and hunting, the only things that he takes seriously.

She thinks of how he doesn't realise how extraordinary his family is.

When he asks her if she has always known she was interested in words and language, she replies that she had the good fortune of realising it early.

'But I was not allowed to spend as much time in libraries as I wanted to, for my parents thought a child should not be cooped up indoors all the time, so my sisters and I have always spent summers with my mother's family in the plains. They have a large vineyard there…'

Her speech takes on a more foreign sound when she speaks of childhood days spent playing hide-and-seek between grapevines with her cousins and older sister Lirulinë, and he realises that she has been modifying her speech patterns to sound almost Noldorin when she speaks with him. This skill must result from her study of language, he supposes.

But while she is absorbed in childhood memories, the differences between their dialects manifest in her speech: he notes the softening of some of her _f_ sounds, and she pronounces some consonant clusters longer and more complex than he would.

Carnistir thinks with a grim amusement that there is at least one thing on which his father and Tuilindien agree. For as little as Fëanáro likes the Vanyar, they concur in the pronunciation of the sound that changes Fëanáro from the son of Therindë to son of Serindë in the mouths of some of the Noldor because of a new sound change that Fëanáro vehemently opposes.

Carnistir shakes himself from his thoughts to remark that summers in the country sound nice, and that his family would often go on journeys to explore Aman in summertime. He reminisces about the unexplored wildernesses his parents enjoy discovering and sharing with their sons, and once again Tuilindien makes thoughtful questions about the things he tells her, which shows him both how smart she is and how intently she is listening to him.

In fact, no one listens to him quite like she does, all her attention directed at him and making him feel… well, interesting. At home there are so many of them, so many brothers, noisy and competing for the attention of their parents and of each other. He has no such close relationship with any of his brothers as Maitimo and Makalaurë, the two eldest close in age, have, or Curufinwë and Tyelkormo, who are different in many ways but somehow all the closer for it. Even most of his friends are shared with one or more of his brothers, too.

He likes the feeling of being something special to someone who is already special to him. He does his best to listen to Tuilindien too and not let his thoughts wander, and when it is his turn to speak he tries to be as witty and fascinating as she seems to think him to be. And wonderfully, she sees to know what he means to say, so it does not matter that the words that actually come out of his mouth are never quite as graceful as he intends them to be.

*

The large park proves too small; they end up walking around it many times. _Just a little while longer_ , Tuilindien promises herself when she realises they have been here for a very long time, past the time it is customary to roam in parks. They are almost alone here now, and the light is more silver than gold.

They stop to sit on a bench for a while, and she tells Carnistir of how preparations for her presentation are going, and this leads her to thoughts of his father, thoughts she has been trying to avoid but must address before their evening together ends.

'Carnistir', she says, enjoying his name on her tongue. 'I must ask you something. The longer I am here, the more I hear of your father's… disapproval of his father the king's second marriage, and of how, by extension, he has little love for the Vanyar, my people.'

She looks questioningly but hopefully not too despondently at Carnistir; his mien shifted in an instant from happy and relaxed to scowling and reserved.

'I have also heard that you are very loyal to your family', she says as gently as she can. 'Yet here you are with me.'

Carnistir stands up from the bench suddenly, so she stands as well.

'I do not agree with my father on all matters', he says slowly, as if weighing every word, and as if that carefulness requires great effort. 'Every now and then I find something on which I disagree with him completely, sometimes to my own surprise. However, I am loyal, that you have heard right.'

She is not certain what this means. 'Does your father know that you are seeing me?'

'Yes. He is not… happy about it, but he does know.' Carnistir thinks it best to be honest about this with her, because gossip would let her know about his father's attitude eventually anyway; indeed, it seems to have already.

'There are things which I will not give up because of his disapproval, but I believe that I can still be loyal to him.' Carnistir's mouth twists further into a grimace. 'And though in this case there has been truth in the rumours you have heard, I should warn you not to pay very much heed to the gossips. They are not always in the right; there are many who spread malicious talk about my father because of his influence on the king and his talents. Both of those are envied by many.'

 _And the envy is not helped by your father's famous intransigence and arrogance_ , Tuilindien thinks, irritation mixing with sadness.

Probably Carnistir notices her discomfort, because he says, 'I would not be anywhere but here with you at this moment, Tuilindien, and my father will come to understand that in time, I promise. And my mother – she was glad when I told her I was going to see you.'

'I am glad to hear that', she says and manages a little smile. In spite of everything, there is nowhere she would rather be, either. Then, feeling like she should say something conciliatory too, 'It is a very natural instinct, I believe, to be loyal to and feel protective of one's family. I dare say I would defend my family too, if there was a need. But you –'

She looks up at him and is struck once again by the strength of feeling that shows in the dark depths of his eyes, which are still fierce with defensiveness. And a little conflicted, as she thinks her own must be too. _Neither of us has happened upon the easiest person to do this with._

'What about me?' asks Carnistir, his gaze just as keenly fixed on her.

'You are very passionate in everything you feel, are you not?' At once she blushes because she chose the wrong words to use if she didn't want her question to sound sensual, and she _hadn't meant it to_ , really, and then he is blushing too, the colour spreading all the way down his neck and disappearing under his collar.

They tear their gazes off each other.

'No one ever accused me of feeling too little', he says after a moment and resumes strolling, and she treads by his side, not quite close enough to touch. 'No, that is not right. I have been called unfeeling towards those that I have no especial reason to care about, and of course I am widely acknowledged to care too little about the niceties of polite society. But those that are mine, in one way or another –'

He turns his intense gaze to her again, and her steps falter.

'– I do feel passionately about.'

While her use of the word was accidental, his is very clearly intentional.

She has no reply, besides to breathe faster and lower her gaze and start walking again in order not to drown in his eyes. Taking into account his habitual awkwardness and his unflattering, brutal honesty about himself just a moment ago, she thinks these last few words of his quite a neatly executed manoeuvre.

It feels natural to head out of the park now and back to the centre of the city. He promises to see her back to the Mindon where she is staying, and they make plans for their next meeting on the way there.

He kisses her hand before they part, and she feels the warmth of his lips on her skin long into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame all the wonderful people in the Silmarillion fandom for the fact that I just had to include needlework in the list of crafts Caranthir has tried. But in the end I made him kind of a stonemason/construction engineer/architect type – I needed to figure out some kind of a preferred craft for him, and that seemed as good as any other. Mahtan is said to have learned stonework as well as metalwork from Aulë and he taught these both to Fëanor, and in my headcanon Curufin prefers metalwork and Caranthir working with stone.
> 
> Information about the differences between Vanyarin and Noldorin Quenya from [Tolkien Gateway](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Vanyarin).
> 
> In the next chapter: Caranthir's attempts at anger management are successful enough that he doesn't kick his father, but not quite enough to stop him kicking at furniture.


	6. Acts of impulsiveness and obstinacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnistir discovers that his father may be even less accepting of his courtship than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all about Carnistir interacting with his family. We'll see Tuilindien again in the next chapter.
> 
> I'm not the greatest at writing kids but I intend the Ambarussar's age in this fic to be the equivalent of human children around 7-9 years old. I like to think that Fëanor and Nerdanel had a rather long pause after Curufin and then thought 'What the heck, let's have one more'... and got two.
> 
>  _The Tengwar_ =a writing system/alphabet devised by Fëanor, _the Sarati_ =an earlier system created by Rúmil.

It is fortunate for Carnistir that the walk home from the great square before the Mindon is a familiar one since he puts little thought into choosing his route, letting his feet carry him home of their own accord. For his mind is engaged in other thoughts, thoughts that are very pleasant to him but would make Curufinwë retch and, once he recovered, mock Carnistir mercilessly – thoughts of feeling Tuilindien's warmth by his side and smelling the soft scent of her beautiful hair, of intending to kiss her hand more than once when next they meet (surely it can be done as a greeting as well as a farewell?), of perhaps making another gift for her…

His excellent mood evaporates when upon returning home and wandering through oddly empty rooms he hears yelling from deeper inside the house. A moment's pause to listen reveals that one of the shouters appears to be male and one female.

Filled with a sense of foreboding he seeks the source of the shouting; it seems to be coming from his father's study. It is definitely his parents arguing, louder than they usually do, or at least louder than his mother usually does; Fëanáro rarely bothers to limit his volume. Carnistir can make few words out through the closed door, though, without pressing his ear to it.

Having found out this much Carnistir thinks that he should probably just go upstairs to his own room and change, but then he hears his own name, spoken by his mother. He presses close to the door now; his mother appears to be saying something about how his father _should have spoken with Carnistir before coming to your own decisions –_

Carnistir's hands clench into fists, and when he hears that Fëanáro's answer includes the word _Vanya_ , he straightens up and closes his fingers on the door handle.

'Moryo!'

Hearing another one of his names spoken right behind him, Carnistir spins round to see his eldest brother has appeared in the hallway.

'You shouldn't go in there. Come to the sitting room with the rest of us.' Maitimo, grave and stern, steps aside to let Carnistir go first to the family sitting room a few doors down.

When Carnistir doesn't immediately move, having heard his own name shouted again, Maitimo says again, this time as a warning, ' _Moryo_.'

Reluctantly Carnistir walks away from his parents' argument and to the family sitting room where he finds Tyelkormo and the Ambarussar. Two small red heads are bent down on either side of Tyelko's silver curls. When Carnistir pulls up a chair opposite the settee the trio is sitting on, he sees that Tyelko is teaching the twins to whittle.

'I told you that knife is too sharp for them', says Maitimo, annoyed.

'And that's why it's in my hand', snaps Tyelkormo in return. 'Stop mothering us.'

 _Speaking of mothers,_ Carnistir thinks and asks, 'How long have they been fighting?'

Tyelko and Maitimo stop glowering at each other, but neither of them looks straight at Carnistir. 'A little while', says Maitimo after a moment.

'They were here at first but then mother said they should go to father's study', adds Telvo. Both he and his twin are looking rather miserable in spite of Tyelko's attempt to distract them from their parents' row.

Carnistir gets up from the chair he just sat down in and starts pacing the room. 'And it's about me and Tuilindien?'

'It's about you and 'your Vanya girl', that's what father keeps shouting about', offers Pityo before either of his older brothers can get a word in.

'Is Tuilindien your Vanya girl's name?' asks Telvo.

Carnistir grinds his teeth. He had known that sooner or later he would have to talk about her with his brothers, but he had hoped it would quite a lot later. And not like this. Their parents' voices have now risen so high that Carnistir and his brothers can hear them here, several rooms over.

'That's her name, but she's not _mine_ ', he replies to Telvo.

'Oh, but she is, or at least you would have her be', says Tyelkormo, so softly that Carnistir has to strain his ears to hear it over the distant shouts. 'Otherwise father wouldn't be so furious.'

Tyelko stands up and flips the knife in his hand, the twins' fascinated gazes following his movements. 'If you had to court a girl, why in Manwë's name did you have to choose a Vanya? Did you do it just to vex him?'

Carnistir would charge forward and shove Tyelko back onto the settee if the Ambarussar weren't still sitting there.

'Shut up', he says instead, his voice choked with fury. 'You know nothing about this.'

'I know that mother was practically crying, and I know I haven't heard them shouting this loud for –'

'Tyelkormo.' Maitimo's sharp voice cuts through the wall of hostility between his brothers who are staring daggers at each other, very close to the edge of violence. 'It is none of your business.'

Carnistir shoves Tyelko aside and tugs the twins up from the settee, as gently as he can right now, then pushes them towards Maitimo. 'It's none of either of your business, and you shouldn't be here listening to them argue about it. And it's not good for the children to hear it. Why haven't you taken them elsewhere, there are plenty of other rooms in this house! Or take them out to the garden, it's not cold tonight.'

Maitimo hardly likes Carnistir's tone but appreciates his care for their youngest brothers. He puts his long arms around the twins and asks, 'And if I take the children to the garden, and Tyelko too– ' Tyelkormo glares at him now, but Maitimo ignores it '– what will you do?'

'I am going to go talk to them', replies Carnistir, and when Maitimo open his mouth to protest, adds, 'I am a grown man, Russandol. They shouldn't be arguing about my choices as if I do not have the right to decide for myself what I do in this matter.'

Maitimo looks far from pleased but gives Carnistir a curt nod, and says to the twins, 'Come on, Ambarussar, out we go. I'll teach you the names of all the flowers that are in bloom at the moment.'

'Thank you', says Carnistir in a tight voice, and then he is already gone.

Maitimo follows him out of the room, holding the twins' hands. When he notices that Tyelkormo isn't following but instead still stands in the middle of the room toying with his knife, he snaps, 'You know I meant you too, Tyelkormo.'

'But I already know all the names of the flowers, brother', says Tyelkormo with a smile as sharp as the knife.

Maitimo gives him a look that leaves no room for argument, the severe big-brotherly look that he has had time to perfect over many decades, and after a beat Tyelkormo follows him.

*

Carnistir stops outside the study door long enough to take a few deep breaths and think, _Tyelko said that mother was crying; whatever I do, I must not make her cry more_. Making his mother cry always brings a violent unhappiness, and a terrible weight on his conscience.

Resolved to control his temper as well as he possibly can, he tries the door handle. The door turns out not to be locked, and he opens it.

It seems that the very worst of his father's ire burnt out while Carnistir talked with Maitimo, for Fëanáro is now sitting at the edge of his desk and holding the hand of his wife who is seated in a chair before him.

'It is too late. Interfering will only harm your relationship with him as well as his happiness', Nerdanel tells Fëanáro as Carnistir steps into the room.

'Morifinwë.' Fëanáro's greeting is bereft of the warmth with which he usually greets his sons, and his voice is hoarse from shouting just like Nerdanel's was. 'This conversation is between your mother and me. I will come talk with you later.'

'No.' Carnistir comes to stand close to his parents. 'I should be included in this conversation, father, for it is about decisions which I have the right to make myself. And you shouldn't have to defend me like this', he adds to his mother. She looks tired, tracks of tears on her pale face, and it hurts Carnistir and makes him angry that she should look so because she has been fighting for him.

Nerdanel has always been something of a go-between for Carnistir and his father, for ever since he was a small child they have had a tendency to blow up each other so easily that talking of difficult topics has been almost impossible. But Carnistir has been of age for many years now, and he knows that his choice of woman to court and possibly bind himself to in marriage is one he must defend himself instead of hiding behind his mother's skirts.

Nerdanel gives her son a wan smile while Fëanáro stands up and lets go of his wife's hand to cross his arms on his chest. 'Very well, then. Morifinwë, as you must have guessed by now, I do not approve of your choice of woman to court.'

Carnistir had indeed known that this was coming ever since he heard the shouting, and had feared it already before then, but a hazy crimson veil of fury still appears before his eyes. He starts reciting the names of the Tengwar in his head to keep calm but that is of little help this time, since the letters were devised by his father. He considers switching to the Sarati but realises that he had better reply to his father in spoken words rather than spite him in his mind.

'Who I pay addresses to is my decision to make', he says, remarkably evenly.

'But your parents have the right to advise you', reminds Fëanáro, his words filled with both fire and ice.

'And do you advise me not to court Ingolmiel, my lord father?' Carnistir tries to summon something of the same power to his own voice.

Nerdanel takes one of her husband's hands and holds it between both of her own but remains silent.

Fëanáro takes a moment to answer, and Carnistir suspects he might be reciting the Tengwar too.

Finally Fëanáro says, 'I advise you not to pay court to one who will not make you happy in the long term. Once the attraction of her being something new and different wears off, you will be left in an unhappy situation, with expectations you will not want to meet.'

Carnistir had imagined many objections his father might voice, but this had not been among them, and he finds himself laughing bitterly in the midst of his rage. 'Really, father? You imagine that I am attracted to her because as a Vanya she is something new?'

'Either that, or you have chosen her solely to provoke me, quite possibly unconsciously. Perhaps you haven't quite got past your rebellious stage yet.'

 _That condescending voice._ Carnistir wants to hurt his father, to strike that supercilious mouth pouring forth hurtful untruths. But Fëanáro is not the only one in front of him, his mother is there too, and she is looking at him like she knows exactly how he feels, and with compassion, and like she is encouraging him not to lash out.

The words almost choke in his throat, but he manages to force them out. 'So those are my only options, are they? Just because she is a Vanya, it must be impossible that I like her because she is beautiful and smart and is interested in what I have to say and understands what I mean to say and _actually seems to like me_ –'

Here his words fail him, and he just stands there, breathing heavily and fighting the burn behind his eyes that he refuses to believe is the threat of tears.

'Fëanáro', says Nerdanel quietly.

'I did not mean to imply anything hurtful. I just don't want you to do anything you will regret', Fëanáro says, looking uncomfortable, but this brings little solace to Carnistir.

'You yourself married a woman no one expected you to choose ', he throws at his father. 'And you haven't regretted it, have you? You have had seven children with her, and you have been happy –'

'It was different for your mother and me –'

'How? How is it different?'

Father and son stare at each other, anger simmering in the air between them. Nerdanel breaks the tense silence when she sees that Fëanáro has no answer, at least not one that he will utter, to Carnistir's question.

'I think this discussion is over for today', she says quietly. 'Fëanáro, why don't you go see if our youngest sons are all right. I fear they may have been frightened by our argument.'

'Maitimo took them to the garden', Carnistir tells his father without looking at him, having turned to stare out of the window behind the desk, still clenching his fists.

Fëanáro follows his wife's suggestion but stops at the door to say, his voice softer than before but still filled with self-righteous conviction that makes Carnistir want to punch the wall, 'You will change your mind, I am sure of it; you are young and impulsive. Just make sure not to do anything irreversible.'

After his father closes the door behind him, Carnistir kicks the desk. It makes his foot ache and his mother flinch in her chair, but it also thins the cloud of rage around him a little.

'I will not change my mind, mother', he swears fervently. 'I am not that young anymore, and Tuilindien is not one of my impulsive decisions. My… attraction to her may have begun suddenly, but I chose to pay addresses to her after careful consideration, and after your advice.'

'I know, my dear', Nerdanel sighs. 'And your father will come to see it too, I believe, given some time. His own prejudices make your choice difficult for him to accept.'

'It was very wrong of him to speak of her as he did.'

'Yes, it was.' Nerdanel stands up and comes to lay a gentling hand on Carnistir's cheek. 'I have faith in your being able to care for a woman who is very different from yourself. I can see that your feelings are strong and true, if unexpected.'

'What makes me angriest is how he made it sound like Tuilindien isn't worthy of my caring for her, and that just _isn't true_.' Carnistir steps away from his mother to kick his father's desk again, but in spite of his words it is a more desultory gesture this time. Nerdanel's calm presence has acted as a soothing balm as it often does for her husband and sons once they are past the worst peak of fury.

She notes Carnistir's use of the girl's less formal name, and it leads her to more pleasant thoughts.

'I suppose your walk with her went well?' she asks, hoping to further defuse her son's anger and help him back to happiness.

'Yes.' Carnistir's fists unclench. 'It was… I am not a poet, but seeing her was… wonderful.' And in spite of admitting to a prosaic nature he thinks to himself, _Seeing her again was like stepping into bright light out of a dark place, heart-easing and lovely and, for a moment, near-blinding in its intensity and thrill._

'I am seeing her again in three days. And then in two weeks' time she will give a public presentation, and I promised her that I will come see it. It's very important for her, she has been working on it for a long time.' A mulish expression takes over Carnistir's dark features. 'Her presentation is a commentary on an early work of father's.'

'That is… a somewhat unfortunate coincidence.'

Carnistir grunts and bends down to rub his aching toes.

'I think it would be best for me to inform your father of Ingolmiel's forthcoming presentation', Nerdanel says contemplatively.

'You don't need to fight my battles, mother', Carnistir says fiercely.

'I know that you can do it yourself and don't need me to, but, my dear –' his mother flashes him a smile, tired but bright, reminding Carnistir of the quiet strength of will that lives in her, '– your father is my unexpected choice, one that I do not regret and can cope with. Though he is slow to change his mind, he is capable of it.'

'He had better change his mind, because I am not going to. Unless Tuilindien decides that she doesn't want to see me anymore, I am not giving up on her.' He ignores the lurch of panic in his stomach when he mentions the possibility that Tuilindien won't have him, and pushes on.

'I will do everything the right and proper way, all the boring things that are needed before –' Best not to finish that sentence, given the less than proper direction his mind had veered off to. He knows his mother will understand anyway. 'Father will see that I am not being impulsive. And that this has nothing to do with him.'

He accepts a kiss from his mother, wishes her a restful evening and night and then shuts himself in his room to take in all the things that have happened, the blissful and the flustering and the angering.

Finding sleep after all this is difficult but he persists in trying instead of getting up from his bed to pursue some quiet task as he usually does when restlessness troubles him at night, since he knows that when he finally finds his way to Lórien's realm, dreams of Tuilindien will greet him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, things continue to be fraught with tension, unfortunately not only romantic tension.


	7. The shape of your thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnistir and Tuilindien meet again and make discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien's elves are capable of a thing called _ósanwë_ or _sanwë_ that is basically telepathy of sorts. Tolkien isn't very clear on how it works, so I'm taking a few freedoms and featuring my own interpretation of it in this story.
> 
> The inspiration for Carnistir and Tuilindien's marketplace snack is a traditional Finnish 'street food' often eaten at marketplaces and outdoor fairs: panfryed [vendace](http://www.visitsaimaa.fi/en/finnish-fast-food-fried-vendace/).
> 
> This chapter is a bit longer than earlier ones, and future chapters will likely be long too, because I don't want to break this story into too many pieces.

The next time they meet, Carnistir takes Tuilindien to explore the markets and shops of Tirion. The choice of activity was inspired by her remarking, when they last saw, that she has had little time or opportunity to see much of the city beoynd the libraries and palaces.

'Let me buy something for you', she says as they head into the throng of the marketplace. 'I have very little skill of hand so I cannot give you anything I made myself, but I would still like to give you something in return for your lovely present.'

She is wearing the combs again, in a different hairstyle this time. She had felt a little silly about it, but was cured of her embarrassment by how widely Carnistir smiled when he noticed them.

(The last time she saw him, on their first planned meeting, her heart had been a little bird fluttering in her chest, excited and restive; this time it soared like the fleet-winged bird she was named after.)

'You don't need to give me anything', he says now.

'I know, but I would like to. So what would you like? There seem to be all manner of things for sale here.'

They have to slow down their already leisurely stroll as they begin to wend their way between the stalls.

'I don't really know.' Carnistir frowns. 'Let's just look around, shall we?'

'And if something catches your eye, you will tell me?'

He promises to do so, but in truth he spends little time thinking of what he would like while they explore the market, for it is much more entertaining to observe Tuilindien's little cries of astonishment and her marvelling looks at the craftsmanship of the Noldor.

'Everything is so beautifully made', she says, running her fingers on the elaborately carved surface of a tall vase.

'It is the delight of my people', he says, delighting in the joy in her blue-green eyes. It is clear that she appreciates beautiful, well-made things even though she declared she cannot create such items herself.

When they approach the part of the marketplace where food is sold, he suggests they buy something to nibble while they continue exploring the stalls. She asks him to choose something he knows is good, and he purchases them both a portion of some kind of fried fish.

'They still have their heads and tails', Tuilindien notes, staring dubiously at the fish.

'Is that a problem? They are very good, I promise.'

 _Don't be a coward_ , Tuilindien tells herself. 'I haven't eaten very much fish in my life, that is all, and never any that still have their eyes.'

'We can get something else if you don't want to eat them', Carnistir says, looking rather more concerned than he should over something this trivial.

'I will try them', says Tuilindien and takes a deep breath and then a bite.

Carnistir is right: the fried little fish taste very good, salty and crunchy, and she finds that as long as she looks at the market stalls around them and not at the dead eyes of her snack, she quite enjoys it.

They walk around the marketplace for a long time, looking at all kinds of wares. Tuilindien buys a few small gifts for her family and her friends back at Taniquetil, but Carnistir does not find anything for her to buy for him.

'Perhaps another time, then', Tuilindien says.

'Is there anything else you would like to see, a certain kind of shop perhaps? Many of the best shops in the city are around this area.'

'Well.' Tuilindien bites her lip in thought, and Carnistir has to look elsewhere. 'I am running out of writing supplies. Buying more is a rather mundane task for us to do together, but perhaps you will at least point out a good store where I could return another day.'

'I do know a good one, and I'll come with you now. I am not in a hurry.' Certainly he is not in a hurry to go home, where he might find his father irate once again.

He leads her down a street north of the marketplace and together they enter a large shop. Its walls are lined with jars of pigments and bottles of ink in many colours, and a cheerful-looking woman sorting paintbrushes greets them. Tuilindien returns the greeting just as amiably and is soon engrossed in perusing inks, papers and other wares. Carnistir trails after her, again surprisingly content to simply watch her enthusiasm.

'Oh, look, Carnistir, what a beautiful little watercolour set. It would be a perfect gift for Cirincë… I already bought her that necklace, but perhaps I can buy this for her begetting day. It is not very far away.'

'Cirincë is the one who is a little older than my twin brothers, isn't she?'

'Yes.' Pleased that he remembers what she told him about her family, Tuilindien explains, 'Cirincë is very fascinated by art at the moment. It might pass, but for now she likes nothing better than to record all interesting things she sees. She has had plenty of things to draw and paint on this visit to Tirion.'

Carnistir is about to comment on this when the small silver bell above the shop door chimes and two golden-haired figures step in, one taller than the other but both dressed very finely.

Carnistir's face turns stormy at once, and he watches sullenly as the two young nobles greet the shopkeeper and then come to greet him.

'Cousin Carnistir!' The older of the two golden-haired princes gives a brilliant smile to Carnistir and Tuilindien. His younger brother appears far less enthusiastic, but scowls less fiercely than Carnistir does.

 _These must not be his favourite cousins_ , Tuilindien thinks while the fairest of Finwë's grandsons asks Carnistir to introduce his lady.

With ill-concealed ill grace Carnistir says, 'Findaráto, Angaráto, this is lady Ingolmiel Tuilindien of the Vanyar. Tuilë, these are my cousins, princes Findaráto Ingoldo and Angaráto of the house of Finarfin.'

Polite formalities are exchanged, and Tuilindien adds that she enjoyed Findaráto's performance at the welcome feast.

'Thank you, Ingolmiel. Findekáno and I enjoyed giving the performance', says Findaráto with another serene yet radiant smile, and he is so different from Carnistir that Tuilindien finds it difficult to believe that they are related at all. 'I believe I remember seeing you on my visits to my great-uncle's court. Your grandfather is an councillor of his, isn't he?'

Tuilindien nods. 'And my mother as well.'

Findaráto, who hasn't visited Taniquetil for a while, asks her about a few of his friends and acquaintances there. Angaráto, still in that awkward stage between childhood and adulthood, looks around boredly, and already at the second question Tuilindien can feel Carnistir shifting restlessly as well. Instinctively, she lays her hand on his arm.

And it is like she is hit by lightning.

On this warm autumn day Carnistir is wearing a short-sleeved tunic over a shirt that also has sleeves short enough to leave most of his forearms uncovered, so her fingers touch his bare skin, and as soon as they do she feels a great uproar in her mind as well as the warm skin under her fingertips.

_Anger that is known to be irrational but no less potent for it, great irritation, nervousness and, rather incongruously, a fierce joy and happiness and pleasure at something that just happened…_

These are not her emotions, Tuilindien realises, and tries to keep calm and appear composed even though she is very much discomposed by both the feelings and the realisation. She lets go of Carnistir's arm, and the foreign emotions fade, but the connection does not break completely. She can still feel, if she concentrates, Carnistir's vexation, and a fresh surge of displeasure when he no longer has her touch on him.

Tuilindien realises she hasn't answered Findaráto's latest question, and that all three princes of the Noldor are staring at her: Findaráto in confusion that soon melts into understanding, Angaráto like he thinks she is a very odd person, and Carnistir in astonishment.

She apologises for her inattention and asks Findaráto to repeat his question, and muddles through the rest of the conversation with what grace her long training in courteousness enables her to muster. Carnistir is a silent looming presence beside her, replying with only a grunt of agreement when Findaráto ends the conversation with a small smile and a polite statement that perhaps they should all get back to the purchases they came here for before they vex the shopkeeper too much by crowding her shop. Tuilindien bids the princes goodbye, gathers a few things to buy and goes to pay for them.

After they step out of the shop, Tuilindien's purchases tucked under Carnistir's arm, she suggests that they find somewhere quiet to talk. There are things she needs to ask him, she believes, and she needs time to compose herself before she returns to her family.

They exchange few words while Carnistir leads her to a nearby teahouse, a quiet, less refined establishment than he would like to take her to if they weren't both feeling like they need to sit down and mull over the recent events as soon as possible.

They are careful not to touch each other during the walk and while he orders them tea and pulls up a chair for her at a corner table.

 _He feels unhappy_ , reflects Tuilindien while she pours tea for both of them and slides his cup over to him, still in silence, _and so do I right now, if in a less intense and more bemused manner.  
_

Once again Carnistir is the one who has the courage to take a first step they are both nervous about.

'I had no idea that would happen when you touched me', he says, clutching his cup so tight that Tuilindien fears it will shatter.

'Neither did I', she answers, taking a sip of tea to calm down. 'It was… rather soon.'

She knows, of course, that a strong mental connection develops in time between lovers, that it begins to take form already before marriage and is greatly strengthened by that act of joining. She had thought, though, that it would take more than two weeks and three meetings to be able to sense anything of Carnistir's spirit.

'I think I could feel your emotions because they were so strong', she muses out loud. 'As we discussed last time, you are rather passionate in your reactions.'

She winces inwardly. _'As we discussed last time?' Could I sound any more like a schoolteacher?_

Carnistir bows his head and tries not to blush, though it is already a doomed effort. 'That's probably it. I'm certainly no Findaráto in this matter.'

'What do you mean?'

'My golden cousin is famed for his ability to open his mind to others and to see into other people's hearts. It has been very easy for him ever since he was a child.'

'Oh.' Tuilindien processes this. 'Is that why you don't like him?'

'Among other things.' Carnistir pushes his hair away from his face and wonders how to explain the dislike, mostly irrational, that he has always felt for Arafinwë's children, and most of all for Findaráto. Findaráto who is beautiful and well-behaved and accomplished – more accomplished than Carnistir, though several years younger.

'We have never got along – no, that is a lie. He gets along with everyone, but _I_ have never got along with him. Part of the reason is that unflappable calm and good mood he seems to always have. It just rubs me the wrong way. It doesn't help that when we were children, he would find out my thoughts and feelings and try to understand me that way and get on better with me.'

'It is terribly rude and wrong to do that without permission.' Tuilindien frowns into her tea.

'He had less control of it as a child. I don't think he did it on purpose once his father had told him that it is indeed rude. But I still didn't like him knowing more about me than I did about him… And even now, I think he realised what was happening between us before we did.'

Carnistir thinks of all the other reasons he dislikes his younger half-uncle's children. The vague sense of superiority he feels they have, even the youngest, a tiny little girl with a mass of silver-golden hair and an unsettlingly penetrating gaze, and the way they insist on holding on to their un-Noldorin habits even when in Tirion – the Vanyarin hairstyles decorated with flowers, the informal Telerin dress they often wear after they have been visiting their mother's kin in Alqualondë, the way Findaráto seems unable to speak pure Noldorin in spite of his brilliance… And Findaráto's brothers often seem to be sneering mockingly at Carnistir and his family.

Fortunately he manages not to blurt out any of this to Tuilindien, for it would hardly endear him to her. He knows, more keenly now than ever, that many of his thoughts are uncharitable and unfair. Aggrievances come so easy to him.

He asks, because he needs to know, how much of his thoughts and feelings she can make out.

'No thoughts, yet', she replies, frowning again as she thinks. 'Just emotions, a mix of them. Very faintly now, unless I focus on you, but very strongly when I touched you when you were angry.' _How could you be so angry simply for encountering a cousin you don't like_ , she wants to ask, and hopes he can't make out her thoughts either.

'It is the same with me, just a faint connection now.'  He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up, a bad habit he has. 'It's unsettling, isn't it?'

He senses a faint twinge of disappointment from her and hastens to explain, cursing his clumsy tongue. 'I mean, I am not used to it – a constant awareness of another person, a connection that means you are aware of me too… I am nervous of what I might share with you', he admits. 'I know much of what I feel is not pleasant and nice. I'm so easily angered.'

'Yes, well.' Tuilindien swirls the dregs of tea in her cup. 'I do wish the first emotion of yours that I felt had been something more pleasant.'

This angers him too, though he cannot deny it is a reasonable thing to wish for and he says, 'I wish it had been, as well. But – in spite of how irritated I was at running into my cousins, I was also glad that you touched me. Did you not feel that?'

'I did.' She raises her gaze from the teacup and smiles at him for the first time since the sudden sensations. 'It is the reason I cannot regret this connection. Your joy is as intense as your anger, and hidden better, so I might not have known of it otherwise.'

His mouth oddly dry, Carnistir says, 'It felt good to have you touch me of your own accord, and to feel that connectedness.'

Somewhat tentatively, he reaches out to lay his hand on her hand that is now fidgeting with the tablecloth.

Tuilindien doesn't pull her hand away. Instead, she watches and feels as his fingers settle on hers in a light touch. His hand is much bigger than hers and lightly freckled, two fingers decorated by large, angular rings of some dark metal. His skin feels warm, and so do the emotions that come with the touch, both his and her own, for there is no anger or irritation now, just pleasure.

 _You are so warm_ , she tries to tell him without words, without speaking, without really knowing how to do it, because it is so new.

Perhaps he receives something of what she tries to convey, because after a moment she feels a rush of more intense delight. She scrunches up her face trying to interpret it, and Carnistir notices.

'I'm sorry, I don't really know how to do this yet', he says. 'It is all so vague.'

'For me as well. But it is still very early, isn't it? We will get better at it, I'm sure. Not that all people ever learn to communicate very clearly, I've understood. Not everyone is like your cousin Findaráto.'

'And thank the Valar for that', mutters Carnistir, his joy intermingling with irritation for a moment, but thankfully it fades soon, and he gives a little chuckle. 'I imagine that if he ever marries he won't bother speaking out loud with his wife at all. That is, if he can find a woman who will tolerate a husband that knows what she's thinking before she does.'

Tuilindien tries not to smile at that, because it is not a very nice thing to say, and thinks of something more pleasant to discuss.

'What I was trying to tell you without speaking – I don't know if I managed it – was that you are very warm. I mean, your hand feels very warm on mine.' Aware that she is babbling, and that Carnistir has started softly stroking her hand, Tuilindien stops speaking, closes her eyes and just enjoys their shared pleasure in the simple touch.

'I was trying to tell you that you are very beautiful.' Carnistir's voice is very low, but Tuilindien knows she heard right, because the shape of it, the delight, feels the same as the wordless message before.

'I –', she begins, not certain of what she is going to say, but another voice speaks at the same time, startling both her and Carnistir.

It is the proprietress of the teahouse, come to ask them rather pointedly if they would like some more tea, or something to eat perhaps?

Carnistir scowls and says fairly rudely that they would not, and Tuilindien tries not to giggle out of embarrassment, feeling like a naughty child misbehaving in public. They have been rather ill-mannered, sitting at their table for a long time after purchasing only cups of tea.

Once she recovers from her fit of giggles and calms down, Tuilindien realises that she has indeed been with Carnistir for a long time. 'We should go', she says to Carnistir and reluctantly pulls her hand away from his; he has been holding on to it all this time. 'My family will be wondering if you have decided to show me every single shop in Tirion.'

'Another day, I hope', he says with a smile that lights up his dark features.

As he walks her back to her lodgings they speak little, both musing over the new kind of unity between them that is now a constant little humming sensation, an awareness that intensifies into a connection upon concentrating on it.

After they part, it gradually fades until they can no longer feel each other, and it is both a relief and a loss.

*

Tuilindien is still deep in thought when she makes her way to her family's accommodations, and she finds her steps taking her to her parents' room instead of her own. When she knocks, her mother Sailatië comes to open the door.

'Hello, mother. Is this a bad time?' Tuilindien eyes her mother's damp hair and dressing gown.

'Not at all, dear, come on in. I found myself with an hour to spare so I decided to wash my hair, but I have time to talk with you now while it dries, and at any time, you know that.'

'I do.' Tuilindien sits down on the bed; Sailatië picks up a hairbrush from the dressing table and, turning to her daughter, begins to sort out her hair.

'How did your meeting with Morifinwë go? I see you found things to buy.' Sailatië nods at the pile of packages Tuilindien set next to her on the bed.

'Yes, there were many beautiful and useful things for sale.' Tuilindien picks at her fingernails, remembering the warmth of Carnistir's skin.

'Yet I have a feeling that the offerings of Tirion's markets are not what you wish to discuss. Are there questions you want to ask me, perhaps, about this new stage in life you've entered?'

'Is father still at the library?' Tuilindien deflects, though there are indeed many things she wants to ask her wise mother.

_Why did I have to get proof of both Carnistir's less than gentle nature and of our increasingly strong connection at same time? Why couldn't things be a little simpler, so I could enjoy the bliss of having found someone whose spirit calls out to mine without it being shadowed by so many worries about his father and his temper? And isn't it ridiculous that simply feeling Carnistir's hand on mine is more wonderful than almost anything I have felt, more wonderful than things I have worked for or looked forward to for a long time…_

Without spoken words or shared feelings, Sailatië knows when her daughters are burdened, so she comes to sit next to Tuilindien and puts an arm around her.

'Yes, your father is still at the library and it will no doubt be a long time before he remembers to leave. So, Tuilë dear, what is the matter?'

Her mother's embrace is comfort incarnate, so Tuilindien tells Sailatië most of what happened. She doesn't describe quite how violent Carnistir's anger had felt (and in any case, perhaps some of its ferocity had been caused by the surprise of feeling his emotions for the first time?) but she speaks of how feeling the connection was unnerving as well as wonderful.

'Like everything about Carnistir and the way I feel about him', she adds.

'It has all happened very suddenly for you two', Sailatië says with a little frown. 'It is no wonder you feel a little overwhelmed.'

'I am very happy too, mother', Tuilindien hastens to reassure. 'Being with him makes me very happy.'

'You are not likely to take a break from seeing him, then?' Sailatië studies her daughter.

'No. There are moments when it all feels almost too much to bear, but giving it up would be…' Tuilindien shakes her head, not knowing how to say that not seeing Carnistir would be far worse than the confused, conflicted happiness she now feels. 'He is coming to the big feast at the palace in two days' time. We agreed to see each other there.'

'And all of his family will be there as well. Does he plan on introducing you to them?'

'I'm not sure. He didn't say…'

'I heard that his father has been looking like a thundercloud for the past few days.'

Tuilindien sighs. Like her elder sister, her mother always knows all gossip though unlike Lirulinë, Sailatië never spreads it on, instead gathering crumbs of information to herself and storing them away for possible future use.

'Carnistir says that Fëanáro knows about our meetings and that he isn't happy about them, but Carnistir assured me again today that it won't be a problem. And I don't think he would lie to me', Tuilindien adds when she sees the sceptical look in her mother's eyes.

'I very much hope not. Now, I am glad for your joy and wish you more of it, and that your fears will prove unfounded and fade away. But meanwhile –'

'I know, I must be careful, Lirulinë has already told me. It is the only advice she will give me.' Tuilindien sighs. She is grateful that her sister and mother listen to her confidences, she really is, but she could do with some more specific advice.

'Well, Lirulinë is right in her advice, and it is really the only counsel that can be given in matters of the heart, since those matters should be decided freely by the hearts in question.'

'I know, I know, and I am sorry for being grumpy, mother. It is just that my heart and my rational mind seem to be at odds with each other.'

Tuilindien smiles apologetically, and Sailatië hugs her.

'It will all become clearer in time, my Tuilindien, and I am always here for you if you want to talk, even if I will not tell you what to do.'

Tuilindien thanks her mother warmly, and they share another hug before Tuilindien gathers her things and goes.

Looking back at her mother before she closes the door behind herself, some of Tuilindien's concern returns when she sees that Sailatië is still frowning as she resumes brushing her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir's opinions on the Arafinwions, especially Finrod, are based on two canon details: we are told that Caranthir 'loved not the sons of Finarfin' though we are not told why (so I made up reasons he could dislike them already at this point) and also that Finrod was particularly talented at opening his mind to others and communicating without speaking. This is referred to in the notes to the Athrabeth, if I recall correctly, and it is how he communicates with the first Men he encounters in the woods of East Beleriand.
> 
> In the next chapter, there is a) dancing, b) Fëanor and c) a crisis. As you can guess, at least two of those things are closely connected.


	8. Seeking control among crowds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At another party held by King Finwë, Carnistir and Tuilindien's first time appearing as a couple among crowds is fraught with difficulties, though there are pleasurable moments too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist writing a tiny little bit from Nerdanel's point of view since she is such an awesome lady. And to avoid Carnistir's brothers taking over this story, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek post on [Tumblr](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/157215364456/herding-family-nerdanels-to-do-list-for-an) about what the other sons of Fëanor get up to at the party.
> 
> Warm thanks to NelyafinweFeanorion for taking a look at this chapter and assuaging my neuroticism!

Fëanáro had agreed only grudgingly to attend this party, after plenty of cajoling from his father the king, and he isn't feeling courteous enough to actually arrive on time with his family. By the time they get to the palace Nerdanel is unhappy to be late, and Fëanáro and Carnistir are already irascible because they both know it is likely, and indeed would be appropriate, that Carnistir's sweetheart meets his parents at this social gathering.

Just before they step into the ballroom, Nerdanel stops her family and casts a strict look on all of them, from Maitimo who towers above everyone else to the unusually neatly turned-out twins.

'I know that you are not used to socialising with the Vanyar, but you will behave as well tonight, I trust, as you did at the welcoming feast, so that your grandfather will have reason to be proud of you for making his guests feel welcome.'

She pretends that she speaks just to her sons but trusts that her husband knows the words are directed at him as well. Honestly, in the last few weeks it has felt like Fëanáro is another child for her to guide. Nerdanel very much hopes that he will soon realise that Carnistir hasn't chosen the object of his affections just to spite his father but for worthier reasons, and also that he needs to overcome his own prejudices to support Carnistir's happiness.

She receives a chorus of subdued agreement and nods from her sons. Fëanáro looks like he is doing all he can to look impassive rather than sullen, which Nerdanel supposes is the best she can expect.

She takes her husband's arm and determines to stay close to him on this night. It will be difficult, though, with so many sons to look after as well.

*

Carnistir cranes his neck to see past Tyelkormo as soon as they enter the brightly lit ballroom, seeking out Tuilindien's slender golden-haired form. But just like at the welcome feast, there are too many similar-looking Vanyar with their backs to him that he could recognise Tuilindien for certain.

He is about to bolt from his family to go find her when he feels a strong hand take a grip on his forearm.

'Not yet, Morifinwë. There are a few people I want you to talk to before you seek out your… girl and disappear for the rest of the night.'

Carnistir scowls at his father, feeling a petty sort of satisfaction that he grew up to be ever so slightly taller and can look down at Fëanáro rather than up. He could yank himself out of his father's grip, see how much of a scene Fëanáro is prepared make to keep him from leaving… but he has promised himself that he will do everything right and proper in his courtship of Tuilindien, and thus cannot afford any kind of a scene.

So he counts his breaths and bites his tongue and follows his father obediently, if still keeping an eye out for Tuilindien. Thankfully his father doesn't seem intent on punishing him in any way, just keeping him away from Tuilindien for a while. This Carnistir infers from the fact that the people Fëanáro takes him to speak to are people he actually wants to talk to: stonemasons and architects.

They discuss Carnistir's plans for expanding the family workshop and improving the ventilation. Fëanáro is so busy at the moment perfecting his seeing stones that he is happy to leave the workshop improvements to Carnistir, but thinks his young son would benefit from the advice and co-operation of more experienced craftsmen.

Carnistir wonders if he should feel insulted by this, since Fëanáro himself never asks for advice and rarely takes anyone else to work with him except assistants, apprentices or his sons, all less skilled than he is. But even though Carnistir is very much inclined to view all of his father's actions with suspicion tonight, he can't detect condescension in his manner. It feels more like this attention towards Carnistir's project is his way of apologising.

And it is not a burden to talk to the other craftsmen, all of whom he knows of old, and the tall black-haired woman whose innovative designs are behind many beautiful and practical buildings in the city. They are interested in his work and offer good suggestions. It is a little difficult to concentrate on them, though, because he still looks for Tuilindien among the throng of Noldorin and Vanyarin nobility. He is beginning to feel a slight panic that she will think he has forgotten her.

He finally spots Tuilindien when his father is dragging him to speak to a third group of people, and he stops so suddenly that a short Noldorin noblewoman in a lavishly embroidered red-and-gold dress walks into him. He ignores her, and he forgets all about his father.

For Tuilindien is dancing, twirling in the arms of a tall Vanya. He is so handsome in his shining white clothes and with his golden hair flowing down his back, almost as long as Tuilindien's, that it makes Carnistir grind his teeth. Tuilindien is gazing up at her partner, tall herself but shorter than this vision of masculine beauty, and she seems to be laughing at something he said, her eyes sparkling with merriment.

She told him, in their very first conversation, that she is a bad dancer, but she seems to be doing well enough at the moment even if her movements are not quite as graceful as those of some others. Then again the dance is one of the simple Vanyarin ones, with much repetition and few changes of partner – the dances that the Noldor favour tend to have more complex sequences of steps, often in rapid succession. Carnistir's own problem when dancing is that he tends to be too slow, one step behind his partner and thus often stepping on her toes.

Tuilindien's partner of the moment certainly isn't stepping on any toes: he seems a superb dancer. But if he is as good a dancer as he seems to be, he should surely know that he is holding Tuilindien too close, his grip on her waist unnecessarily tight.

Carnistir finds himself walking closer to them, prowling along the edge of the dancefloor. The high collar of his formal robes chafes and feels constricting, and he wants to snarl at the people, bejewelled and pompous, who block his way. The party tonight is again a terrible crush, reminding Carnistir of the dense tropical forests in the south of Aman where one is constantly becoming entangled in something.

The tall Vanya bends to whisper something in Tuilindien's ear, and her lips curve into a smile again and Carnistir's hands clench into fists and he is hot and cold at the same time –

And he sees Tuilindien's steps falter, a look of confusion and distress on her face. She looks around and sees him, their eyes meeting for only a second before Tuilindien turns back to her dance partner. Carnistir is not particularly proud of what she must have seen in his eyes, and felt from him a moment before, but he cannot help it. A new kind of fury and resentment has taken over him, and it is all the harder to shake because of its unfamiliarity. He tries to push it deeper down inside himself instead; perhaps Tuilindien won't feel it if he does that.

Through the haze that surrounds him Carnistir sees Tuilindien say something to her partner, and then the two of them stop dancing and start walking towards him instead.

Carnistir struggles to gather his wits, and he stands tall and straight and lets his features assume the haughty expression that comes so easily to him even when he is feeling anything but confident. His father has taught him many useful things, and not all of them in the workshop.

Tuilindien has her hand in the crook of the other Vanya's arm, and she too looks like she is fighting to compose herself. Carnistir receives a faint sensation, an echo of her discomfort, when they get close.

'Prince Morifinwë', she greets him and curtsies, and her formal greeting makes Carnistir want to grab her and drag her out of this glittering ballroom to somewhere where they can speak properly, somewhere where it is just the two of them, where they can forgo formality and worry less about onlookers.

There are times when he wishes he weren't of the highest house of the Noldor.

But he is, and he brutally squashes the wish of escape, instead using his high station to greet her in a more familiar manner. 'Tuilindien', he says, and bows to kiss her hand, keeping an eye on the man beside her. She has withdrawn her other hand from his arm, Carnistir notes with slight but savage pleasure.

The man looks a little confused.

'Alcarno, I'd like you to meet Morifinwë Carnistir, prince of the House of Fëanor. Carnistir, may I present my brother-in-law, Olordion Alcarno, my sister Sailiel Lirulinë's husband and a member of King Ingwë's court', Tuilindien says, reciting names with a purposefulness that only partially masks her discomfort.

 _Brother-in-law_. Carnistir would blush from embarrassment if he wasn't already flushed with jealousy. _But he was holding her very tightly_ , he defends himself while he nods at Olordion. The Vanya gives him a small bow, looking somewhat wary.

Carnistir isn't calm enough to be able to engage in small talk. He turns to Tuilindien again and says, 'You told me you aren't a good dancer, but you seemed to be doing well enough.'

He doesn't mean it to sound like an accusation, but it rather does, and he cringes.

'I can manage tolerably if I have a good partner who knows he has to lead me carefully. Alcarno has–'

Tuilindien is interrupted by the arrival of another young Vanyarin woman, one who looks very much like Tuilindien with her dark golden hair and delicate features. She is a little shorter, though, and it is instantly clear that she has a much more lively and less gentle manner.

'Tuilë, Alcarno, I'm so glad I found you! I saw you disappear from the dance floor; I hope all is well?' Without waiting for an answer, Tuilindien's older sister – for it must be her – turns to Carnistir.

'Ah, prince Morifinwë.' She curtsies deeply. 'Do forgive me for not noticing you at once. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, for I have heard much of you.'

Carnistir doesn't believe for a second that she hadn't noticed him. There is an assessing, calculating look in her eyes, eyes that are startlingly the same shade of blue-green as Tuilindien's.

Looking ever more discombobulated, Tuilindien again performs introductions.

'It is quite a crush again tonight, is it not? Most of the free space appears to be on the dancefloor, for not many are dancing this early in the evening', Sailiel observes amiably, the only one of the four of them that appears calm and collected. Carnistir remembers Tuilindien telling him that her eldest sister is as if created for court life, relishing in the mix of ceremony and machinations that make up the life of those close to people in power.

He scrambles for something to say, something that will show Tuilindien that he wants to get along with her family, but before he can compose a sensible sentence Tuilindien's sister speaks again.

'The next dance is a Noldorin one, I believe, but a rare one for two people with no changes of partner. You two should make use of that opportunity. Tuilindien is not very familiar with the steps, but you can teach her.' She says it lightly, as if a throwaway suggestion, but again the look in her eyes tells Carnistir that she knows exactly what she's doing.

He can hear Tuilindien making sounds of protest to her sister. But Carnistir thinks, _If this is the way to convince her family of my honourable intentions, so be it_ , and he turns to her, giving a small bow.

'My lady Tuilindien, I would be honoured if you allowed me to share this dance with you. I shall endeavour to lead, even though I cannot promise to do it as adeptly as your brother-in-law.' The last sentence he says more quietly, hoping to reassure her. She looks so very much in need of it.

She puts her hand in his outstretched one, and both of them shiver at the contact.

Tuilindien's sister takes her husband's arm and leads him away, smiling like a satisfied cat.

Carnistir takes a deep breath and gathers himself, and suddenly sees his father whom he had forgotten all about amidst his jealousy.

Fëanáro is just twenty feet away, obscured up to this point by Tuilindien's tall brother-in-law but visible now. He is standing in a group of people, loyal supporters of his that Carnistir recognises, but looking at Carnistir. His eyes are unreadable.

He doesn't say anything or beckon Carnistir, nor does he approach him and Tuilindien, and after a heartbeat Carnistir wrenches his gaze away from him and back to Tuilindien where it belongs, his heart a little lighter than it was a moment ago.

This is the best he can expect from his father, he supposes.

'What is it?' she asks.

'I just saw someone I didn't expect', he hedges. 'It doesn't matter. I'm here with you now, and we are going to dance once the song changes. I will do my best not to humiliate you.'

'It might be me who causes the humiliation', Tuilindien says, worrying her lip. 'I was given a quick lesson on Noldorin dances before we came here, but I ran away early to polish an essay. As Lirulinë said, I really don't know the steps very well.'

'I find it hard to imagine you running away from a lesson.' In spite of Tuilindien's worry Carnistir can't help smiling at the image. Things are better now, with just him and her, still holding her hand even though their dance hasn't begun yet. Those on the dancefloor are still twirling in the simple Vanyarin movements.

'I fear dance lessons have always been where my good breeding fails. Carnistir, what happened? I was dancing with Alcarno when suddenly I felt a rush of such anger.' She studies him. 'I wasn't even aware that you had arrived, I heard your family was late. And I felt nothing in our connection until the sudden anger and unhappiness. It made me think there was something the matter with you. Are you well?'

The conflicting desires of wanting to be honest with Tuilindien and not wanting her to know just how quick he is to judge and doubt and, as he discovered a moment ago, feel jealousy, war within Carnistir.

'We can talk about it later if you would prefer that', Tuilindien says, glancing at the people around them. She is frowning, and unhappy.

It is enough that they have the worry for his father's attitude hanging over them; Carnistir wants no other shadows, no secrets between them, even if it means revealing more of his flaws to her.

 _It's not like I ever manage to hide them long anyway_ , he consoles himself. _She would find out eventually._

Heedful of the crowd pressing close to them and the busybodies within it no doubt listening to their every word, Carnistir tugs Tuilindien's hand and leads her behind a wide pillar, hiding them from Fëanáro's view at least. He moves very close to Tuilindien, so close that it would be inappropriate if they weren't already an openly courting couple.

He says into Tuilindien's ear, the scent of her hair in his nose, 'When I saw you dancing with another man, and he was holding you so close, I was upset. I shouldn't have been, I know, but I am always so quick to react with judgement.'

Tuilindien draws away from him, just as he feared, though not very far. With wide eyes and hushed voice she says, 'There was no reason, Carnistir. Alcarno is my brother-in-law; I have known him since I was a child and he is truly like a brother to me. He was holding me tight because we wanted to make sure that if I stepped on anyone's toes it would be his. And even if it had been someone else I was dancing with –' Tuilindien bites her lip again, and it causes more heat to flood Carnistir's face '– there would have been no reason for you to be upset either. I wouldn't do anything that you would need to feel jealous for.'

She is not just worried now but hurt, and he hastens to make it better, to make her stop hurting.

'I am so sorry, Tuilë. I'm not… this is all so new, I have never felt like– I have never courted anyone, and I am not very good at it, and I think I will get better and I hope I will get more reasonable and I didn't really think that you would do anything wrong, I mean, anything to give me cause for–'

'Carnistir.' Tuilindien's voice is very quiet, and to his utter mortification Carnistir realises his had been rising in volume.

'It is all right, Carnistir.'

'No, it isn't', he says, rather miserable, and aware that the orchestra is segueing to another song, the one he and Tuilindien are supposed to be dancing to. 'I'm sorry you had to feel my anger again. I don't know how to control it so that you don't.'

'We will learn', Tuilindien says in a determined manner, though Carnistir can feel that her determination is at least partially a facade, not backed up by conviction. 'We will practise, and we will learn to control it.'

'Do you know how? To practise?'

'I have heard a few tips. But we should – I mean, if we are still –' Tuilindien gestures at the dancefloor where new couples are taking up their starting positions.

'Yes, of course.' He leads her there, and bows to her as they take their places for the dance: holding each other by one hand, standing side by side to begin with.

A moment before the change in music signals the first steps Tuilindien asks, a new kind of vulnerability in her eyes, 'You will guide me, won't you? I don't want to embarrass myself and you in front of everyone.'

'You won't.' Carnistir presses her hand. 'I have you.'

His shame for the jealousy and the fear of it happening again are washed away by the gratitude and relief he feels in the answering squeeze of her fingers.

He determines to dance better than usually. For once he actually wants to do it well; surely he just needs to concentrate.

*

The problem is her concentration, Tuilindien decides already after a few steps which, it turns out, she remembers but doesn't manage to execute with any kind of grace or elegance. If only she could concentrate on moving her body the right way, then it would be all right.

Usually it is easy for her focus her concentration on anything she wants to, especially her studies, though she rarely forgets all about the world around her like her father tends to do. It is infuriating not to be able to do it now, to have her thoughts skittering every which way instead: to Carnistir's startling jealousy, to wondering what her sister and brother-in-law thought of him, to the people all around her and Carnistir, many of whom are probably watching them with curious eyes. Tuilindien knows that this dance is meant to be a declaration of sorts, and she is quite happy Carnistir chose to do it, but it doesn't make being watched any easier.

She is not accustomed to being at the centre of attention: she has never sought it out and there is nothing about her that would have made it happen on its own. She is not brightly vivacious like Lirulinë, or able to command a room's attention with carefully weighed authoritative words like her mother. She is happier in libraries and family rooms than she is at great feasts or balls, though she is used to court life since childhood.

But the worst hindrance to her concentration is Carnistir himself as he is at this moment: constantly touching her, at the very least holding her hand but often twining both his hands around her waist to lift her or hold her close. His body is warmer than ever and he looks at her so ardently, his eyes the same stormy grey as the fine robe he is wearing and brighter than the dark jewels on his collar…

Feelings and thoughts flow between them, amplified by the physical contact and closeness, and Tuilindien is not always certain which ones are hers and which come from Carnistir. The feelings are of pleasure, happiness and desire, and the thoughts are of _more_ , of being even closer to each other, of touching even more, of doing things that have thus far been the stuff of secret dreams, hazy and formless, but now so very keenly needed.

They try to keep moving to the music, to follow something resembling the right steps, but it is very difficult when their shared desire keeps escalating. The images they send to each other are so wonderful that Tuilindien doesn't even want them to stop, though it makes dancing difficult.

_I wish we could stop moving and just touch. Running my hands down your chest, touching you over your heart to find out if you are even warmer there than elsewhere, would be so wonderful –_

_If mine were the only eyes on you and I could look as long as I liked, I would spend hours studying you so that I will always know every golden inch of you –_

_Peeling away your robe to discover whether you have freckles all over, and how far down your body your blushes extend –_

_Twisting my hands in your hair and pulling on it, only gently, just enough to make you arch back and expose your neck so that I can kiss you there and feel on my lips the vibrations of the sounds you make –_

Tuilindien gasps and stumbles a little. Carnistir pulls on her hand, trying to help her balance, and she steps on the toes of one of his feet but then regains her footing. The embarrassment of this episode helps her regain some of her equanimity as well, though the warmth of desire lingers in her.

'I'm sorry, I lost my concentration', she murmurs to Carnistir as they skip a twirl to catch up to the other dancers.

He is redder than she has ever seen him before. 'It is very hard to focus.'

'We really need to learn to control our mental connection, and soon', Tuilindien says quietly while they circle each other, upheld palm to palm.

'Yes. Did you –' Carnistir clears his throat. 'When I was feeling jealous and realised that it made you unhappy, I tried to push it deeper inside to keep it away from you. Did it work?'

Brows furrowed, Tuilindien thinks. 'Probably. The sensation of your… displeasure diminished even though I was getting closer to you. I was a little surprised by that.'

'I shall try that again, then. Although…' Carnistir lifts Tuilindien and looks up at her, holding her aloft a second longer than others hold their partners without even noticing. 'I don't really want to stop imagining what we would like to do to each other if we weren't here.' A dismissive gesture with the hand he withdraws from her waist indicates the crowds around them, showing how little he cares for everyone else.

Tuilindien concentrates on moving her feet right, and on suppressing the renewed flush of desire that Carnistir's words brought. It is such a strange thing, desire: it makes her feel restless in her own skin, yet happier in herself than ever before because Carnistir _wants_ her. Oh, the sweetness of being wanted by him…

And now she is clumsy again. She takes a deep breath and doesn't reply to Carnistir because doing so would distract her. There is not much left of the dance now, and they manage to control themselves and their movements in satisfactory manner for the last moments. It is with great relief that Tuilindien makes her curtsy to Carnistir at the end, and they walk away from the dancefloor with swift steps.

Tuilindien can see half-hidden smiles on the faces of people around her; she fixes her gaze straight ahead to see as few as possible. She isn't certain if she and Carnistir danced badly enough for it to count as a humiliation, but it was probably some sort of a spectacle anyway. One of lovesick fools, probably.

 _Is that such a bad thing_? she asks herself. She is roused from her thoughts by Carnistir asking her something as well.

'I missed the dinner because my family was so late. I think there are some refreshments in the side chamber, since there usually are. Would you like some?'

If he is hungry then of course they must seek out the refreshments. 'Some wine would be good after the dancing.'

'Yes, it would.'

They are heading towards the side chamber when suddenly Carnistir pales, and the quiet hum of happiness in the now more controlled connection between them is replaced by unease.

'Ah, Tuilë', Carnistir begins but before he can say more, a cool male voice greets him.

'Morifinwë. Would you introduce us to your companion?'

Carnistir's parents have appeared at their side, unnoticed by Tuilindien because she was looking ahead so determinedly. Trying to quell the nervousness in her stomach, she turns to them now.

Prince Fëanáro and his wife are both dressed very splendidly, he in dark red and she in dark green. The shining silk of their clothes is far surpassed by the many gems that are sewn into the fabric and glitter in their hair, in Nerdanel's necklace, in rings around their fingers.

Fëanáro completes the look of royal illustriousness with an expression that could be described as dignified, or as arrogant. It reminds Tuilindien of the way Carnistir looks sometimes, but apart from that she cannot see much resemblance between father and son. Nerdanel shares more features with Carnistir, from her ruddy skin tone to her deep-set grey eyes, though Carnistir's are darker.

At the moment Nerdanel's eyes are warm and curious, and Tuilindien takes solace in that. She is more nervous now than ever before, she thinks, more even than she was prior to her final examinations before all of the loremasters of the Vanyar.

Carnistir makes the introductions and Tuilindien makes deep curtsies to both of his parents, the elegance of the curtsies slightly hampered by the fact that Carnistir is still holding her hand. She doesn't mind it, though.

'We are very pleased to meet you, Ingolmiel', says Nerdanel with a smile and what looks like… a pinch on her husband's arm?

Fëanáro smiles, but far from easing Tuilindien's apprehension, the sharp cold smile makes her want to run away. That reaction in turn makes her feel like she shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't have let Carnistir begin courting her because she is not brave enough, not like these Noldor with their fiery hearts and fierce pride–

 _Stand your ground and you will find that you are braver than you think_. Her father's gentle words, said years ago to allay her childhood fears, drift into Tuilindien's mind. She has a tendency to give up too soon on things that are difficult or frightening but now that she is no longer a child, she knows that is an easy way to miss out on good things. _Things which are hard to come by will in time prove the more valuable_ , likes her mother to say.

So she stands tall and refuses to be cowed into being ashamed of who she is, of being Vanyarin, and her serene expression falters only a little when Fëanáro says, after a pause that was much longer than is polite, 'Yes, we are very interested to find out what about you has captivated Morifinwë so.'

He says it like he doubts there will be much to find, and Tuilindien holds on to Carnistir's hand and braces for worse to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will pick up directly where this one ends. I originally intended for this eight chapter to include all the events at the party, but it became way too long so I had to split it into two.
> 
> EDIT.// I posted my thoughts and headcanons about Fëanor on [Tumblr](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/157750187691/f%C3%ABanor-headcanon-fear-of-loss). It sheds some light on why he behaves as he does in this fic.


	9. Disconsolate, conflicted, conquering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the party where dancing together was so sweet, things continue less sweetly for Carnistir and Tuilindien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all you lovely people, I'm sorry it took me over a month to write a new chapter to this story! In my defence I did write [eight fics](http://archiveofourown.org/series/686961) for Fëanorian week which you might also like reading if you haven't.
> 
> This picks up directly from the last chapter and there is some exploration of Tuilindien's character – namely, we discover some unfortunate side effects of being gentle and well-behaved and used to dealing mostly with people who are the same way. First half of the chapter is mostly from Tuilindien's point-of-view (kicking off with a bit of Nerdanel again), the second half is all Carnistir.
> 
> I've posted some meta adjacent to this story on Tumblr: an older one [on why Fëanor is being such on ass](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/157750187691/f%C3%ABanor-headcanon-fear-of-loss), a new one [on the Ambarussar's pranking habits](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/159090438436/headcanon-amrodamras-wee-twin-terrors).

Nerdanel resists the urge to kick her husband and smiles at the Vanyarin girl again instead. 'We would be happy to learn more about you, although Carnistir has of course told us some things, like your being a scholar. And that you are taking part in the scholars' colloquium soon.'

'Yes, my lady. I have been preparing for my presentation.'

'It must be very exciting for you, talking about your work in front of a large audience.'

'Very exciting, and a little daunting.' The girl looks a little more relaxed now though she speaks of being nervous. Nerdanel keeps smiling very sweetly, well aware that her husband's smile has too much teeth to be anything but unnerving.

'Surely there is nothing to be daunted by, if you know what you are talking about', says Fëanáro before Nerdanel can think of her next comment.

As so often she cannot let him know of her displeasure because she needs to hasten to fix the damage he has done. Carnistir is practically snarling at his father, and Tuilindien is staring at the hem of her gown.

'In youth, when one has little experience of life yet, many things seem daunting which one later learns are nothing to be afraid of', Nerdanel remarks and digs her short nails into Fëanáro's sleeve. 'And not everyone is as fond of listening to their own voice as my lord husband.'

Carnistir freezes and then relaxes again; the Vanyarin girl raises her head quickly.

Nerdanel doesn't even glance at Fëanáro, doesn't give him a chance to protest her words, just continues smoothly to another topic. 'We saw you two dancing a moment ago and I must say, I was glad to see that you'd managed to coax Carnistir to dance, Ingolmiel, for he tends to shirk that duty almost as often as Tyelcormo. You two made a lovely couple and it seemed that Carnistir didn't trample on your feet too many times.'

Nerdanel's tone is teasing and Tuilindien realises that perhaps this is how one should deal with temperamental men: by not taking their every outburst seriously and by daring to make fun of their flaws. She will not experiment with it now, of course, but decides to keep it in mind.

At this moment she is immeasurably grateful to Carnistir's kind and diplomatic mother. She replies as soon as she can gather the words. 'Carnistir was very kind to help me with the dance steps, for I was not very familiar with them yet.'

They continue thus for a while, making polite small talk, Nerdanel and Tuilindien doing most of the talking and trying to ignore father and son still glaring at each other. The half-pleasant, half-tense conversation comes to an abrupt end, as do all conversations nearby, when a series of crashes and clatters suddenly rings out from the side chamber by whose door Tuilindien and Carnistir are standing with Carnistir's parents.

Tuilindien, standing closest to the door, peeks in and sees three redheads, one very tall and two small, at the centre of the commotion. The two small redheads are crawling out from underneath a beautifully embroidered tablecloth that has somehow been pulled down so that many dishes on the table have also fallen to the floor: the cause of the crashes and clatters, no doubt. The tall redhead is pulling the little ones out from the wreckage, and, if Tuilindien is hearing right, hissing chastisements at them. He is flushed almost as red with embarrassment as Carnistir.

'I think your brothers are in trouble', she says to Carnistir, a little bemused.

Nerdanel sighs, begins to ask 'Which ones' and then extricates her arm from Fëanáro's and looks for herself.

'I expect that the twins have pulled their 'whispering rude things from under the table' prank again and it has gone wrong this time', says Fëanáro wryly. He has not moved an inch. 'Your help is probably needed to diffuse the situation, my dear.'

Nerdanel looks at him, clearly conflicted, and then at Carnistir and Tuilindien, and finally at her eldest and youngest sons.

Carnistir is looking there too. 'I had no idea Nelyo could get that red', he says in a voice of wonder.

That seems to decide it for Nerdanel. She shoots a stern look at her husband, then hurries to calm down the furore around the refreshment table.

'I think Tuilindien and I should go to–' begins Carnistir at once, but his father interrupts him.

'Oh no, Morifinwë, you shouldn't go anywhere. I have had so little opportunity yet to get to know your golden-haired sweetheart.'

It shows that Fëanáro is truly a master of language, a distant part of Tuilindien muses, that he can say words like 'golden-haired' and 'sweetheart' and make them sound like compliments and insults all at the same time.

She can feel the fury welling up inside Carnistir in spite of his efforts to keep it from her. A large part of the fury appears to be for himself, probably because he cannot think of a way to restrain his father without making a scene. She squeezes his hand.

Fëanáro continues, 'So you are a scholar.' Like everything he has said to her so far, he makes the statement sound doubtful, and the power of his voice is such that he makes Tuilindien doubt her own merit. 'What are your areas of study?'

 _Surely he must have heard this already from someone_? 'Language, my lord, especially the differences between the dialects of the languages of the Quendi and how they came to be.'

'Hmm.' The awareness of this being also one of Fëanáro's interests lies heavily between them. 'And is that the only thing with which you occupy your time?'

Feeling like she is back to taking examinations, Tuilindien replies, 'I have also helped poets with choosing the right word-forms for their poems about times when our language was different, and I have taught matters of language and writing to my sister and other children.'

'Assisting and teaching are worthy enough pursuits for people who are incapable of ground-breaking work of their own, I suppose.'

' _Father_!' Carnistir growls, loud enough that several people turn to look at them. Tuilindien wishes she could turn invisible, or to fly to a peaceful grove on Taniquetil with the power of thought.

'I enjoy teaching', she says quietly. 'And I enjoy helping more creative people with the authenticity of their language. There is a pleasure and a privilege in helping others discover words, I feel.'

'Of course there is', Carnistir says so quickly that he cannot have even thought about her words before agreeing.

'I suppose so', says Fëanáro in a tone that communicates he doubts it very much. 'And I also suppose that a young noblewoman of the Vanyar – for you are of some nobility, are you not – cannot be expected to engage in hard, disciplined work since she can afford to dabble in a bit of this and that, doing what she pleases without much consequence.'

Coming from a prince well known to move quickly from one interest to another, this hardly seems fair, no matter how brilliant his mind and how skilful his hands. Tuilindien swallows, looks for words, fails to find them – an especially cruel and ironic failure, since she just spoke of helping others find the right words.

Fëanáro is managing to make her doubt everything about herself, and she despises it, and despises that she is not good enough at courtly games of cutting words to answer him in a satisfactory way.

Despises the tears she can feel in her throat, cutting off any possibility of speaking.

Carnistir's hand in hers is no longer much of a comfort. It feels like a restraint keeping her trapped here, being humiliated in the middle of a crowd, and its formerly welcome warmth is now an oppressive heat. Yet it is still helpful: Carnistir must sense her misery through the connection, for he speaks, after a tense moment, to Fëanáro, and decisively this time.

'I will see you later, father, and discuss these matters with you.' His voice is low and dark, and Tuilindien thinks it would make her tremble if it was directed at her, but it seems to have no effect on his father. 'Tuilindien and I will go now.'

'Please excuse us', adds Tuilindien, for relief at feeling Carnistir tugging her away from Fëanáro gives her her voice back. _Yet even I am not well-bred enough to tell him that it was a pleasure to meet him, though that would be the custom_ , she thinks as she makes a little curtsy, a much less respectful one than she would perform if Nerdanel were still there, no matter that Fëanáro's birth is much higher than his wife's.

She follows Carnistir when he strides away from his father before he has even replied, and if Fëanáro says something to their retreating backs, she doesn't hear it for all her concentration is on retaining the appearance of composure.

She stumbles a little, hindered from walking as fast as Carnistir by her long and heavy skirts. He slows down at once, concern replacing rage in his eyes.

Tuilindien does not reassure him that she is fine for she knows that he appreciates honesty, and he wouldn't believe her anyway.

'I know another place where wine is served', Carnistir tells her. 'I think I still want some. Actually, I want it more than I did earlier.' He runs a hand through his hair, upsetting the simple arrangement of small braids holding it away from his face. Tuilindien is coming to recognise this as a nervous habit.

'If you – if you still want to spend time with me', he adds when she doesn't respond immediately.

 _Do I?_ asks the most hurt, scared part of Tuilindien, but she pushes the question away. Carnistir hasn't hurt her, and it would be unfair to hold him responsible for his father's behaviour when he very clearly hadn't expected it to be so atrocious and had done what he could to shield her from it. It wasn't his fault that the barbs had hit her anyway.

And they are still, _still_ , in the middle of a party crowd. Many people must have observed Fëanáro being less than welcoming to her; if she leaves Carnistir now, it might be construed as her rejecting him because of his father's actions. She doesn't wish for him to be humiliated that way.

So she says, 'Wine would be good', and allows him to lead her to a table on the other side of the great ballroom.

Apparently as distracted as she is, Carnistir pours her a glass of the light Vanyarin wine and for himself one of the stronger Noldorin drink without asking for her preference. Tuilindien takes her glass and sips in silence in the quiet corner Carnistir brought them to. He looks like he is struggling to say something but doesn't quite manage it, and she cannot help him right now, having enough difficulty keeping her own emotions under control.

Very rarely in her life has she felt like this, like she is not good enough, having been found wanting by someone whose opinion matters (Fëanáro's does, unfortunately, as little as she likes it).

She'd known Carnistir's father had no love for the Vanyar, and she'd heard from Carnistir himself that Fëanáro was not pleased with his son courting a Vanya. So she had been prepared for Fëanáro to be cold, perhaps even rude – but purposefully cruel? That _had_ been a surprise.

What was no surprise but still very unfortunate is her own reaction. She often freezes when confronted with intentional discourtesy, unable to speak or act or even take herself out of the situation. And sometimes, as now, she finds it difficult to be angry even when she knows she should, instead sliding into anxiety and self-doubt.

She hates that Fëanáro has made her feel this way. He has no right; beoynd no one having any right to make someone feel like this for no reason, Fëanáro's criticisms don't even have any foundation. Even amongst her insecurity Tuilindien knows this.

Fëanáro referred to her being of 'some nobility', but in truth, her lineage should be unobjectionable even to a prince. She may not be royalty but one of her grandfathers is one of King Ingwë's most esteemed lords and the other one of the largest landowners in the plains, and her parents both have positions in Ingwë's court.

As for her other qualities, her breeding and manners are very near impeccable, her mother has seen to that, and if her looks are not breathtakingly spectacular, she has still been called pretty. She is accomplished enough for her age to have no reason to be ashamed on that score either, though of course she isn't anywhere close to Fëanáro's youthful genius. No one is.

And even if all these things weren't true, she still should not be made to feel like _this_.

Tuilindien looks down at her wine glass, holding it with both hands and wishing suddenly that Carnistir hadn't let go of her to pour the wine. She could do with the tactile reassurance that she is still good enough for him at least.

She finds herself blinking more than she should, and Carnistir closer by her side the next second.

'Please don't cry, Tuilë', he says, quiet and hoarse. 'I'm so sorry. I didn't think he would be so –'

'Please don't apologise and explain. Not now.' She allows herself to take one step to be even closer to him, close enough to lean on him a little. 'I cannot talk of it now if I wish to remain among people. Let us just stay here a moment.'

They stay, and Carnistir covers her from the sight of curious eyes with his own body until she has regained some of her composure.

'Would you like to dance again?' he suggests, not because he particularly wants to but trying to think of a way to continue the evening with her.

Tuilindien hasn't been paying much attention to the music but listens now for a moment to the tune being played; it is a fast, cheerful piece. 'Not really', she says. 'I don't think I could do justice to this music. How about a walk in the garden?'

'That is a very good idea.'

They leave their wineglasses on a table, and Tuilindien takes Carnistir's proffered arm. _I suppose it is a little funny how often I find myself behaving impolitely and unsociably with this man, spending time alone with him when we should both be interacting more with other people. Then again, is spending time together not what courting couples do?_ Thinking of herself and Carnistir as a courting couple brings her less joy than it did before this evening.

They don't make it even to the wide garden doors before they are intercepted once again by family members, this time two of Tuilindien's.

'Dearest.' Her mother glides over to her with the easy grace that Tuilindien often wishes she'd inherited, giving her a quick look-over, and proceeds to introduce herself and her husband to Carnistir.

Tuilindien's father lets his wife exchange pleasantries with a startled Carnistir while he gazes at his daughter, brows furrowed. 'Tuilë, are you–'

'I am well, father', she says quickly, knowing that in his own, quieter way her father can be just as disrespectful of formal events as Carnistir. He might make a fuss if she confessed to being anything but fine. 'We can speak tomorrow morning before we go to the library.'

She turns to Carnistir and her mother, the former flushing while the latter compliments his robes. '– very fine work, but then I wouldn't expect a grandson of Therindë to wear anything less.'

Carnistir mutters thanks and Tuilindien smiles gratefully at her mother. Sailatië remarks on what a crush it is tonight and says that she is rather tired, having spent all day in council talking with people and then socialising at the party.

Tuilindien thinks she knows where this is going, relief washing through her at the realisation, and sure enough, the next thing Sailatië says is that she is planning to leave the party. 'Perhaps you would retire together with me, Tuilindien? It is late enough that it wouldn't be too terrible discourteous to our hosts and the other guests. You father still has a few people he wishes to talk to, so I would appreciate your company walking back to our accommodations. My apologies to you, prince Morifinwë, but I'm sure you'll understand. Tuilindien has had a long day too.'

After a second of bemusement Sailatië's husband says, 'Yes, quite, many people to see', while Carnistir blushes more.

'Of course I understand, my lady. Thank you for dancing with me, Tuilindien.'

Tuilindien pulls her arm away from his gently and thanks him too. 'I did enjoy our dance. Please give my regards to your mother, she was very kind.'

 _Is this fleeing?_ she wonders briefly, seeing and feeling the unhappiness in Carnistir as they say goodnight to each other, parting for the first time since their first meeting without having agreed a time for their next meeting. _Is this a time when I should gather my courage, stay and face a difficult situation?_

Even if it is, she cannot bring herself to stay. Walking away from the stuffy ballroom, from Fëanáro who is still somewhere in the crowd, even from Carnistir who is the ultimate source of all the confusion in her, is such a relief, and her mother's presence beside her is so comforting.

*

Carnistir's gaze follows Tuilindien and her mother making their way through the crowd as long as he can make them out, two golden-haired figures walking close to each other.

He supposes he can imagine many ways the evening could have gone worse, but that brings little solace, for it went terribly enough.

There is little point in staying at the party, and in any case he is far too angry to converse with anyone without snapping at them. The only person he wants to talk to is his father, but that is no conversation for a public place. And he needs to think of what he intends to say – he would love nothing better than to simply explode at Fëanáro, but Carnistir knows from rather extensive experience that that rarely ends very well, usually just with his storming out when he becomes so frustrated that he fears he might get too violent.

He goes back to where the wine is served, not bothering to apologise to the people he jostles when he doesn't walk in the careful stroll one should in such a crowd, scowling fiercely enough that no one approaches him. He pours himself a glass, gulps it down and thinks of where to go. Going home to his father's house, empty though it is at the moment but for servants, holds no appeal.

What he _wants_ is to run after Tuilindien and talk with her in some private place, he realises. Or at least ask her to meet him again. It makes him feel terribly vulnerable that they don't have another meeting agreed to.

 _It's not too late_ , his anxious mind whispers. _If you run you can still catch her_.

It is something that Tyelkormo might do, rash and reckless. Then again he and Tyelko are not so different.

Carnistir finds himself rushing through the throng, through the ballroom, into a hallway and on to the wide front hall, where to his relief he sees the two Vanyarin women walking sedately towards the door, heads bent close in conversation.

'Tuilindien!'

He cringes at the sound of his voice echoing in the near-empty hall but keeps walking towards her. To his relief she leaves her mother's side and comes to meet him.

'Carnistir', she greets him bemusedly.

'Can I meet you tomorrow? Midday in the courtyard. Will you come?' The words come out breathless. _I must be bright red as well_ , he thinks with disgust.

'Did you run here to ask me that?'

'Yes.' He can't tell how she feels about it, the connection between them silent, and it makes him want to shake her so she'll answer his question. Instead he asks again. 'Will you meet me?'

'Will your father let you come?' she asks in return.

'He can't keep me away, he has no right. If you promise to come, I'll be there.'

'I…' Tuilindien glances at her mother who is studiously looking in the other direction, but waiting for her. 'I will come.'

He grips her hand, presses it, and she enjoys his touch for a moment. Then she turns away from him and goes, and he lets go of her hand and their fingers slip apart.

At the last moment of contact there is a spark of feeling, as if Tuilindien had allowed herself to relax, and Carnistir closes his eyes and savours it. When he opens his eyes again Tuilindien and her mother are gone, passed through the door into the silver night on white streets.

He follows them out after a moment, and goes home. He decides to wait in his room until the rest of his family come home and then seek out his father.

He slams the door of his room as loud as he can, the near-painful sound of it breaking the silence of the still house, and it makes him feel a little better.

*

It takes a long time for his anger to fade more. Soon after it finally does and Carnistir falls into a near-reverie, he hears voices from the corridor. His father's voice telling the Ambarussar to go to bed at once is enough to bring him back to wakefulness and fury.

When he opens his door and joins his family Fëanáro takes one look at him and says, 'My study, Morifinwë, in five minutes.'

Carnistir nods tightly.

'Why are you going to papa's study in the middle of the night, Moryo?' asks Telvo, covering up a yawn.

'Because Carnistir's not a little boy and it's not his bedtime yet', replies Nerdanel with a fond and despairing look at Carnistir. 'But it is past yours, Telvo and Pityo, so say goodnight to your father and brothers now.'

The twins mutter their goodnights and are led to their room by their mother, and Carnistir heads to his father's study. Its door is locked so he has to wait outside which brings many memories from childhood. Most of the memories are unpleasant – this was the room he was summoned to, more often than any of his brothers save Tyelcormo, when he had misbehaved so badly that Fëanáro wanted to deal with the matter himself instead of leaving it to Nerdanel.

This time Carnistir isn't the one who has misbehaved, and he won't listen to any scolding from his father. When Fëanáro arrives and opens the door, Carnistir slips in before him and goes to lean against the desk, facing the door; he doesn't want his father to go sit behind the big desk and thus recreate even more closely the scene of a child being chastised.

'You were hateful with Tuilindien', he says as soon as Fëanáro has closed the door. 'You had no right. _No right_.'

'I wanted to show you how she is unsuitable.'

'And you thought that a good way to do that would be to insult her in public, to bring her to the brink of tears? You must have lost all the intelligence you are famous for! All you proved is your own stupidity and arrogance and ill manners–'

'Morifinwë! I am still your father. You forget the respect you owe me.'

'Oh, I am so sorry. Do forgive me, my lord father, your royal highness!' Carnistir bows mock-respectfully one second and kicks the chair beside him the next.

After the crash of the chair falling has died down Fëanáro says, still ice coldly, 'Sarcasm suits you even worse than your brothers.'

Carnistir knows this, and because of that he rarely resorts to it. Simple fury is better and he should have remembered it, but of course he doesn't appreciate the reminder from his father.

'You are meant to respect my choice of a spouse', he shouts at Fëanáro. 'You have the right to withhold your blessing if you so decide, but no right to insult her for not being exactly what you would want. She is what _I_ want.'

' _Not exactly what I want_? She is nothing that I would want for a son of mine!'

'Can you hear yourself?' Carnistir demands. 'Tuilindien is a Vanya, yes, believe me, I know that, but she is well born and smart, a scholar, and those things at least should be to your liking!'

Fëanáro grinds his teeth and concedes, 'She has some qualities that are outwardly acceptable. But she is a Vanya, and like many Vanyar, she is too soft and weak, not worth binding yourself to.'

Carnistir begins to protest but Fëanáro keeps talking. 'It took very little to bring her close to crying, and she didn't even try to defend herself.'

Fëanáro's voice is somehow still impassive and cool and full of self-righteousness; Carnistir digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars, takes a deep breath and then opens his eyes and  shouts, only a little less loud than before. 'You insult her and she gets upset, and you think _she's_ to blame? It wasn't _very little_! And she's too polite and gentle to talk back in the same manner.'

'Yes, she is very polite and gentle, if that is what you want to call it. You're not, Morifinwë, and that is why I object–'

'There is nothing wrong with politeness', Carnistir protests. 'There would be a lot more people who hate you if mother wasn't always cleaning up after your temper–'

'Your mother and I have a lot of other things in common.' Fëanáro waves aside Carnistir's argument and asks, 'What do you and the Vanya have in common?'

Carnistir has been wondering about the same thing but he wouldn't admit it to anyone, least of all his father. 'Enough to have deep feelings for each other', he answers, certain of that at least.

Fëanáro scoffs. 'It's too early for you to know that.'

'Are you saying you didn't know as soon as you met mother?' Carnistir snaps back. 'The way you've told us the story, you two knew since the day you met that you would marry.'

He rarely manages to leave his father speechless, and it is a sweet victory every time. He fills the silence by telling Fëanáro, 'I have made up my mind and you can't change it by disapproving or by listing all the things you dislike about Tuilindien. I'm going to keep seeing her unless you lock me in my room.' His tone says that he would like his father to try.

Fëanáro doesn't take the bait. 'I'm only trying to make sure you won't end up unhappy', he says.

Carnistir believes him only because he has said the same thing during every argument they have ever had, or the day after the argument those times when feelings had run too hot for any sensible words.

'The risk of unhappiness for me would be much smaller without your asinine behaviour', Carnistir says, a little hoarse from the shouting. 'Hurting Tuilindien hurt me too, _and_ now I need to find a way to convince her not to give up on me–'

'And you tried to do that by making a spectacle of yourself, running after her in public.'

'You made a spectacle of us all first!' They've gone back to shouting again.

Fëanáro suddenly removes his circlet, runs a hand through his hair and sighs. 'I know you are indeed too stubborn to change your mind, so I won't interfere again.'

Carnistir is so surprised he can only blink.

'I still don't like it', Fëanáro says stiffly. 'It would be much wiser for you to court one of our own kind, a craftswoman perhaps, someone more like you. But I won't speak against the Vanya, in public or in private, since it seems no use.'

'She has names, father', Carnistir growls, not so easily appeased. 'She's not _the Vanya_ , she is Ingolmiel Tuilindien, and you need to call her by a name.'

'Fine. But she is a Vanya nevertheless.'

'I told you already, I know that very well! But my courting her has nothing to do with that and everything to do with what else she is besides a Vanya. Whatever you think of her, I care for her just as she is.'

The room is lit only by the faint light of Telperion from the window so he might be wrong but Carnistir thinks he sees his father's steel-grey eyes soften a little – very little, but still. There have been moments like this before, moments when Fëanáro finally understand a passion Carnistir has been defending with fury.

'Did your running after… Ingolmiel result in anything?' Fëanáro asks after a moment during which he studied the circlet in his hands and Carnistir leant heavily back against the wide oak desk, exhaustion creeping in alongside relief.

'She agreed to meet me tomorrow.'

'Make sure you don't neglect your work because of it.'

'I haven't so far, have I?' Carnistir knows he hasn't, apart from the five days of indecisive agony after he first met Tuilindien and before he took any steps to make sure he saw her again.

'No', his father concedes. 'Goodnight, Morifinwë. I'll see you in the forge in the morning.'

With that, Fëanáro is gone. Carnistir breathes out a long sigh and leans back to lie down on the desk, wincing when his spine hits that of a book.

 _I need to go to bed_ , he thinks. _I need to get up and go to bed and think of what to say to Tuilë tomorrow and sleep and work with father and then go meet her_ …

He doesn't manage to find the right words before he falls asleep but he does find dreams of golden hair and soft skin and dancing, of the rest of the world falling away around them like gentle rain. When the morning comes the last of his fury is gone and all that is left is conviction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to apologise to Maedhros. Poor guy, I make him babysit the twins and then I write him failing even at that.
> 
> And maybe also to Tuilindien for almost making her cry. It's not easy being young and in love for the first time and then being told, or at least very clearly implied, by the father of your crush that he thinks you insignificant in every possible way.
> 
> Thanks for staying with the story, or if you're a new reader, welcome on board, happy to have you!


	10. Matters of faith and reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuilindien tries to reason out matters of the heart and meets with Carnistir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time again to figure out how I wanted to tell this part of the story (I posted several one-shot fics in the meantime again) but it's here now and I've already done a lot of work on the next chapter as well.
> 
> This chapter is written from Tuilindien's point of view, whereas the next one will be from Carnistir's.

Tuilindien has trouble concentrating on the words on the parchment in front of her, and after a while she gives up and pushes away the messy notes she'd intended to write into a coherent whole. It is only a week until her presentation at the scholars' colloquium and she needs to finalise her plans very soon, but after an hour of trying and failing she has to accept that she is not going to get any work done before her midday meeting with Carnistir.

She'd been glad when he had run after her and asked her to see him again so soon, but her feelings have grown conflicted again since then. In the quiet of the night with only her sister's steady breathing from the other side of the room for company, Fëanáro's words had returned to haunt her and kept her from finding rest.

And in the morning on the way to the library her own father, her quiet and gentle father, had spoken to her with surprising vehemence about how one shouldn't marry a person who makes one as unhappy as she had seemed last night. Tuilindien had tried to explain that Carnistir had never made her feel anything but beautiful and interesting and wanted – if not in those words – but her father had proved difficult to convince.

'Promise me you will guard you heart well, Tuilë', he asked of her. 'For it is the most precious thing you can give away.'

She promised.

Now she wonders why Carnistir asked to see her, if he has any specific purpose other than assure himself and her that all hope is not lost for them though his father would prefer that.

Tuilindien hopes that Carnistir won't do any grand gesture like asking her to marry him. It is far too soon for that to be wise, and she is not ready to give an answer of any kind.

She leans back in her chair which is both beautiful and practical like everything the Noldor make, rubs her temples and prays that all of the other scholars at their desks are engrossed enough in their work that they don't notice her neglecting hers. She chose a spot in a quiet corner, close enough to a tall window that she can gaze upon the city of Tirion if she tilts her head a little.

Tirion is sparkling white and beautiful, and foreign and familiar at the same time. It shares many features with her home, the small town around Ingwë's palace, and with Valmar, yet it feels very different. The spiritual distance between Tirion and the cities of the Vanyar is longer than the physical distance.

The sheer industriousness and passion for craft and beauty that Tuilindien has met everywhere in the city of the Noldor is very different from the quiet reverence of Ingwë's court or the simple lifestyle on the plains where farmers live their lives in the rhythm of the seasons changing. If it didn't sound so trite, she'd think the difference much like the difference between her and Carnistir, one intense and passionate and the other quieter and more thoughtful.

She dreamt of him again last night – she dreams of little else these days. This time the dream was of the two of them dancing, and when she woke she was breathless in a way she's never been before.

This visit to Tirion has turned out very differently from what she expected. She has been able to commit less of her time and focus to her studies, and the way she views her upcoming presentation has changed drastically.

Ever since she chose a youthful work of prince Fëanáro's as her subject, she has been a little nervous of his reaction should he deign to pay any attention to a young Vanyarin scholar discussing his work; now, because of the personal connections, her nervousness has a new edge, knife-sharp. She fears he might actually show up to listen and, even worse, to make comments. The weakest part of her has already suggested that she change her subject.

But no matter Fëanáro's insinuations last night and her own insecurities that creep on her every now and then, she does have a little bit of ambition and courage. She will not listen to that weak part of herself. It would be disastrous to changer her subject this late. It would also seem like a display of strong fear or respect for Fëanáro, and in the end, she neither fears nor respects him that much.

It is the way of the scholarly community to comment and build upon previous works, often criticising them in the process, and Tuilindien was a scholar before she became Carnistir's… whatever she is.

It is ironic, very much so, that because she escaped at Finwë's celebration her sister's attempts at finding her a husband, she had met a man whose heart called to hers. Such an unexpected man, in so many ways.

 _Why him_? she asks herself, far from the first time she has done so. _Why, why, why_. Why Carnistir, a Noldo whom she would probably never see again in the ordinary course of things, as they were of different peoples and he didn't even like hers? Why a man whose temper shifts so quickly that she can't keep up with it, making her nervous because she could not understand such a nature, having never really known anyone like him?

Before coming to Tirion, Tuilindien along with all the other Vanyarin girls had expected to be enchanted by the beauty of Nelyafinwë or Turkafinwë whose fair forms are talked about even among the Vanyar. And she certainly finds them fair, pleasant to admire as one might admire a beautiful painting or a song played with skill. She finds far greater enjoyment at looking at Carnistir, seeing the animation in his eyes and watching the muscles of his face move as he speaks, even if he has no beauty of great renown.

 _Morifinwë Carnistir_. Both his names describe his looks, for even among the generally dark-haired Noldor, he is a dark one with his night-black hair inherited from his father and grandfather, black brows heavier than Tuilindien has seen before, eyes of a grey so dark they look almost black, and a ruddy complexion inherited from his mother that flushes easily and turns bright red when he feels strongly about something, which is most of the time.

Tuilindien has not thought very much about marriage, but she has supposed that she would marry one day as most people do. On the rare occasions that she has thought about her future husband she has had in her mind a vague image of someone with golden hair and golden skin and a gentle nature – the kind of man she lived her whole life among, someone like her.

Is Carnistir's being so different from herself and everyone she knows the reason she is drawn to him? She has never been attracted by extremes before, though she knows that some people are. Is that why _he_ is attracted to _her_? Does he find her enchanting because she is exotic to him? That is one more thing to worry about.

No, it isn't; she dismisses that worry quickly. The mental connection she and Carnistir developed so quickly proves that their feelings for each other go deeper than the surface, and she would do them both injustice if she thought otherwise.

In any case it isn't like she's the first Vanya Carnistir has ever seen. There are Vanyar in his own extended family, after all, and many more in other families in Tirion. The white city was originally home to both the Noldor and the Vanyar, and most who'd married Noldor during that time remained in the city when Ingwë took his people to Taniquetil and the plains. There have been later marriages too. Because there were very few Vanyar in the beginning, many of them are closely related and seeking spouses among the Noldor and, less commonly, the Teleri is not unusual.

The next thing she begins worrying about is Carnistir's family, his father most of all of course – the Noldor and Vanyar are on friendly terms in general, and Tuilindien had thought that Fëanáro would be able to overcome his prejudice for his son's sake. She isn't so sure of that anymore.

Yet it isn't just worry and anxiety hindering her concentration, it is also all the good things about Carnistir, things that fascinate her about him and things she wants to know and experience more about. After all, before they had encountered Fëanáro they had danced together, and it had been both the most disconcerting and most wonderful experience of her life.

The memory of being so close to Carnistir, of being held and holding him, sends shivers down her back though the treelight streaming in through the high windows keeps the library warm. She glances around again but none of the other scholars seem to be paying any mind to her lack of progress, so she dares to keep daydreaming. It is easy to relax since libraries have always been her favourite place.

Her sister or mother would have been much better suited to falling for a temperamental Noldo than she is. Tuilindien loves peace, quiet, the still ambiance of libraries where dust motes dance in the air and the only sound is the rustling of parchment and the scribbling of quill pens.

She breathes in that quiet air now, leans forward on the desk on her elbows, stares unseeing at the book in front of her, lost in her thoughts.

_If I end what has grown between Carnistir and me it will be out of cowardice, yet if I keep going on this path, it will be because I am afraid of how lost I will be if I leave it. This really isn't bringing out the best in me._

_I have always wanted a peaceful life, yet I also want you, Carnistir, and you are as far from peaceful as can be, full of passion and fire._

_I could drown in all that passion, lose myself in it._

_How can the threat of drowning feel so tempting?_

She can find no ready-formed answers in her own mind, try as she might. And this lovely tranquil library, a place of words and learning, isn't the right place to make a decision about Carnistir, because logic and reason are too little for the as yet nameless thing that has taken such a powerful hold on her spirit. This is a matter of faith, of choosing to believe in the feelings growing between them, and she will have to see if she has enough faith in them, and in him.

*

Tuilindien walks with slow steps into the great square beneath the Mindon, the greatest of the many white towers of Tirion, embarrassed to be early. The quiet library had in the end began to feel stifling, and she had hurriedly stuffed her books and scrolls and writing things into her satchel and left before she needed to.

She should have remembered Carnistir's impatience, though. As soon as she looks around the square she spots him, early as well, pacing back and forth near Galathilion, the white tree made by Yavanna in the image of Telperion. This tree sheds no light, but Carnistir with his black hair and dark clothes seems surrounded by a bright glow cast by his white surroundings. He looks anxious, and beautiful to Tuilindien. She stops for a moment to admire both him and the tree.

Carnistir notices her soon and stops his pacing; they meet half-way.

'Shall we sit down?' Carnistir asks, brows furrowed, pointing to the benches around the tree and the many fountains on the square.

Tuilindien chooses a bench from which they can see the tree. It is slender and beautiful even though it is a small, pale echo of the glory of the silver-shining White Tree, and it reminds Tuilindien that this city, this square and the tree all belonged to the Vanyar in the beginning as much as they belonged to the Noldor. She is not so out of place here as she has felt herself to be; her own ancestors lived here, walked across this square on their way to the tower of Mindon where King Ingwë used to reside.

She moves her gaze from the tree to Carnistir, quiet and distracted-looking beside her, not quite close enough to touch.

'I'm sorry about my appearance', he says when he notices her looking at him. 'I was working with my father in the forge and wasn't able to leave early enough to change.'

Tuilindien realises only now that he is indeed dressed in work clothes: sturdy trousers and a grey shirt of light linen, both garments soot-covered in places. He rubs at a stain on his knee.

'I don't mind what clothes you wear', Tuilindien says after another moment of awkward silence. 'But… did your father try to stop you coming? Is that why you had no time to change?'

'No!' Carnistir's gaze meets hers. 'I talked with him last night, after the party. Well, we shouted at each other, to be more accurate. In the end he promised not to interfere anymore. I wasn't late because of him, not directly anyway. We just got so lost in our work that I lost track of time.'

'I see.' Tuilindien has experienced the same thing herself but finds it difficult to believe that Fëanáro has relented already. 'So your father doesn't mind that you continue seeing me?'

Carnistir scratches the back of his neck and tugs at the thick black braid hanging down his back. 'I wouldn't say that', he says, somewhat red-faced. Tuilindien notices he's speaking more diplomatically than is his custom, and it seems to take some effort. 'That will take more time. But he promised he won't speak against you again.'

'That is good', Tuilindien replies in an equally careful tone, keeping her feelings to herself as she has all this time.

'I promise, Tuilë, he won't hurt you again like he did last night.' Carnistir's expression is hesitant as he realises he used the shortened, affectionate version of her name. Tuilindien gives him a small smile, the nervous one she thinks she probably wore for most of the night when she met Carnistir for the first time.

'I am good at working stone, you know', Carnistir continues. 'Even my stubborn father's head cannot be much harder than that. I'll make him change his mind further.'

A giggle escapes Tuilindien, as nervous as her smile. Carnistir smiles back, the uncomfortable tension between them melting away and something warmer flowing in its place.

'I don't work together with him very often these days. I'm a member of the stonemasons' guild now and spend most of my time on building projects. My family is close, though, and all of us come back to father's workshop every now and then. I'm working there while Curvo is at grandfather Mahtan's.'

'I don't disapprove of you working with your father', Tuilindien hastens to reassure him. 'I am glad you are close with your family; so am I with mine.'

Another smile is exchanged and Carnistir says, 'If I manage to stop myself getting annoyed at him while we work side by side, it's a good opportunity to work on his attitude as well. I wouldn't expect an apology from him any time soon, though', he finishes somewhat despondently.

'I didn't really expect one.'

Carnistir moves closer to her on the bench. 'Tuilindien, may I see you again tomorrow? I don't have a lot of time today, I have a meeting with a merchant soon, but tomorrow –'

'Tomorrow I'm spending the day with Rúmil, going over my plans for the colloquium. He has very generously agreed to look over my work, since our research interests are largely the same. Not that I don't want to see you again', she adds quickly. 'But I am very busy for the next week, until the colloquium is over. The day after tomorrow we could perhaps have lunch together? I think I can take that much time off. On some other days as well.'

Carnistir agrees to that with eagerness that tugs at Tuilindien's heartstrings and makes her blush a little, and she doesn't mind it at all when Carnistir moves even closer to her. Testing her control of the mental connection between them, she tries to share a little bit of her quiet but deep delight that they are going to keep pursuing their relationship.

Carnistir seems to understand, for when he next speaks it is to say, 'I am very glad – and that isn't a strong enough word for it, but I don't know what else to say – that we will keep spending time together. If you have time, I'll have lunch with you every day.'

Tuilindien finds herself looking at her hands folded in her lap. 'I am only going to be in Tirion for three weeks longer. If that were not the case I would think that we should take things slower, that to see every day was foolish… I believe, or thought I believed, in long courtships. I thought it was best to see what feelings develop over a lengthy period of time.' She allows herself a nervous gesture, a smoothing of her skirt near her knees, as she gathers courage to say what she wants to say next.

Then she wrinkles the skirt by bunching it up between her fingers as she admits, 'That was before I knew that I could come to care for someone deeply in just a few weeks' time. Two weeks, really, that is all the time that has passed since we first met, isn't it?' She glances at Carnistir and he nods, and her gaze becomes captured in his eyes, the dark greys reflecting so much back at her. 'I _will_ see you every day', she continues, quietly; she knows Carnistir will hear. 'It has been and continues to be necessary for us to have a fast-paced courtship, if we want to have one at all. And I don't want to waste a single day.'

'Let's not waste any, then', replies Carnistir. He lays a gentling hand on her tense ones, and she lets go of her skirt to entwine her fingers with his. His touch is as warm and reassuring as ever and Tuilindien relaxes, opening herself to their connection. Carnistir's emotions that flood to her are so joyful, affectionate and strong that she feels as though she were back on the plains of Valinor very close to the green mound of Ezellohar, gazing at the brilliance of Laurelin at its brightest, surrounded by the warmth that radiates from it.

She hopes her own feelings can bring as much pleasure to Carnistir.

They sit like that for a while, holding hands in silence while sitting far too close to each other for it to be decorous, communicating without words how glad they are to be together and intent on going forward together after the previous night's disasters.

When Tuilindien begins to grow restless, realising that they are having a moment that should be private in a place that is quite literally in the middle of the city, people walking past them all the time, Carnistir regains her attention by calling her name quietly.

'Tuilindien.'

'Yes, Carnistir?'

'You should know that I have never wanted anything as much as I want you for my own. For my wife.'

It couldn't be clearer from the way he speaks that he means every word so she doesn't even need affirmation of his honesty in the connection between them, but she receives it anyway. Stronger than ever before, there is in his rush of feelings a bright, singing thing that must be love, love of a kind she has never felt before.

She cannot help but savour it, and she knows that she could respond that she has never wanted anything as much as him and it would be just as true. But she is more cautious than he is and less able to forget everything else in the world, on a grander scale as well as in this moment. In the library she had hoped that he wouldn't propose marriage to her yet. Now she hopes that his words weren't a proposal.

'I care for you very much', she says softly, knowing that whatever he meant by his words, this probably isn't as much as he hoped for. 'Do not doubt that. Even so, I will not make any declarations stronger than that yet, and no promises beyond seeing you every day while I am here in your city.'

She closes her eyes for the short, difficult moment before Carnistir gets his emotions under control, trying to ignore the anger tied together with his disappointment. Anger colours so many of his emotions.

'I will try to be content with that', he says gruffly. 'I know I should be, but I am my father's son. We find it difficult to be content with anything short of everything.'

There it is again, the passion that both excites and scares her, along with a heartbreaking awareness of his own shortcomings that seems to be as much a part of him as his anger and the passion. 'Just give me – us – a little time to figure out how we fit together and in the world, Carnistir. Even if you and I know how we feel, there are other things we must take into account. If it were just you and me in the world, if there was nothing else to think about –'

'There isn't, not really. Nothing else is important.'

'No, my hasty Noldo, that is not right.' She lays her free hand on his flaming cheek, unable to keep from touching him more even while she tries to bring caution into their passion. 'Nothing else is as important as what we feel, but there _are_ other things to consider. We do not lead solitary lives, but have families who are part of our lives, very dear and important to us.

'It would not be wise, for you or for me, to choose a spouse that doesn't have our family's approval. I don't think we could have a happy marriage following a wedding without the traditional blessings of parents, and a marriage should be a joining of two families, not just the two individuals. And the matter with your father is not fully resolved yet, I suspect.'

She strokes her hand across his cheek once more; he drops his gaze to their joined hands. He asks, 'Does your family disapprove of me? Your mother looked surprisingly approving last night…'

'She knows you have behaved honourably with me, and she and father have nothing against you personally. But they did both tell me, in their own ways, that they hope I will not join myself to a family, however high and noble, if that family does not accept me as I am.'

'And that is your primary objection too?' In spite of her cautious words, his drip with hope.

A deep breath and, 'Yes.'

His fingers press hers almost hard enough to hurt. 'I will overcome it, I promise. I will talk with my father again, and my mother too, and perhaps my grandfather – he surely understands and approves, and he could talk with my father too.' Carnistir speaks quickly, thinking out loud. 'No, perhaps not. Grandfather Finwë has never been able make my father understand his own second marriage. But one way or another, Tuilë, I will make him change his mind. He can be… unreasonable, but he does want me and my brothers to be happy, that I have always believed. I just need to make him understand that my happiness now lies with you, and I think I have already made some progress on this.'

His hope and determination is transmitted to her, but she doesn't know what to say.

'Do you trust me to do this, Tuilë?' He studies her closely.

She takes another deep breath and another leap of faith, another lunge off a high cliff into water whose depth she can't be certain of. 'I do, Carnistir, I trust you.' _With all that great fire and will in you, how could you fail?_

He lifts their entwined hands to his mouth and kisses her fingers. 'Then every day we will meet for our midday meal, and every day I will keep working on my father's attitude like I would chip away at stubborn stone. With constant pressure.'

Tuilindien presses his hand in turn. 'I believe in you. But I must remind you of one more unpleasant thing.' She gently extricates her fingers from his and moves a little farther away. 'We must return to propriety in our meetings, at least as long as we must meet in public. We have touched each other too much today, startled as we were by yesterday's events, but it will not do in the future. Gossip of us taking freedoms with each other will not help our case with your father or any others who might disapprove.'

Irritation bleeds an ugly dark stripe into Carnistir's happy mood. No doubt he wishes she were less concerned with propriety, but she will not back down on this. She knows it is for the best.

Carnistir's next words surprise her by echoing her thoughts. 'You know better than I do how to behave', he says. 'I must say, though, that I am tired of worrying about damned gossips. There should be nothing gossip-worthy about two young people courting. It happens every day with countless people.'

'I am tired of it too', Tuilindien answers. 'But people do gossip, my dear.' She fears the affectionate term of address might sound patronising; instead, it makes Carnistir's frown disappear. 'And they come up to me and pretend to be complimentary or concerned, trying to get information out of me, whenever something has been seen happening between us. Ever since our first meeting all people have wanted to talk to me about is you, and us. I ate breakfast in my bedchamber today because I wasn't in the mood for evading questions.'

'It's worse for you than me.' Carnistir is clearly realising that just now. 'Of course it is. I should have realised. Few people dare to openly pry into my family's affairs, and mine least of all my brothers' since I am well known for responding badly to that sort of thing. Whereas you're a guest at the court…'

Tuilindien nods, and Carnistir curses, too loudly.  ' Valar-damned busybodies. Tuilë, let me know if someone harasses you too much from now, and I will put an end to it.'

She nods again, though she thinks that Carnistir attempting to 'put an end to it' might cause more of a scandal than their sitting close together sharing little touches will.

Even though they are no longer touching, she can feel his fierceness, in the form of near-violent protectiveness this time.

 _I truly need to find a Noldorin courage in myself_ , she thinks after they have said their goodbyes and she walks back to the library with slow, thoughtful steps. _For I will need courage to withstand and indeed to enjoy the storm in you, my dear Carnistir._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this didn't feel too melodramatic. As a Fëanorian, Carnistir is kind of a dramatic guy. And since I'm keeping this fic largely LaCE-compliant, divorce and remarriage aren't options for elves, so choosing a spouse is a very serious business for them.
> 
> According to HoME there were fourteen (fourteen!) Vanyar originally so unless they did quite a lot of marrying outside their own tribe, there was a lot of incest going on. Ugh, actually, this is probably one of those half-poetic things Tolkien wrote that it's best just to ignore or not take very literally at least. But that's why I mentioned Vanyar marrying Noldor and Teleri, anyway.
> 
> The next chapter will speed through the week of lunch dates and Tuilindien's presentation, concluding with Carnistir seeking romantic advice from Makalaurë.


	11. Conference, conciliation and consultation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuilindien gives her presentation, and Carnistir asks for advice from the one brother who hasn't been irritating him lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know very little about architecture and city planning in Valinor so you can't blame me for inaccuracy for writing the Eldar having their scientific conference (the colloquium) in an amphitheatre. Amphitheatres are cool.
> 
> Without further ado, here's the new chapter :)

A week is a very long time, Carnistir discovers, when one only looks forward to a single hour of every day and spends the rest of the time trying to make one's infuriatingly obstinate father change his mind.

It all goes well, though. Having lunch with Tuilindien every day is wonderful, no matter where they eat. On three days they spend their shared lunch hour at the park closest to the library, eating food Carnistir purchased from the marketplace. He likes those days best as they offer a sense of informality and intimacy that he enjoys much more than the refined atmosphere of the finest eateries of Tirion.

He doesn't even mind it very much when Tuilindien's younger sister joins them for one of the lunches in the park.

'I'm so sorry, Carnistir', Tuilindien whispers to him when the younger girl is absorbed in examining the fried vendace Carnistir brought for today's meal. 'I didn't mean to spoil our time together, but Lirulinë just _left_ her in the library and told the librarians that I would look after her. I couldn't leave her there alone. I have no idea what Lirulinë was thinking – she knew I was meeting you.'

Carnistir thinks of how shrewd the gaze of Tuilindien's older sister had been when she met him for the first and so far only time, and he thinks he knows why she left Cirincë with Tuilindien. It is a test of some kind.

He has three younger brothers, and little sisters cannot be so different. It shouldn't be too hard to pass this test. He tells Tuilindien that he doesn't mind the unexpected company, and believes he manages to sound reasonably earnest.

Doing well with Tuilindien's sister is even easier than he thought, though he is a little nervous at first. Cirincë isn't very different from the Ambarussar, just more well-behaved and there is only one of her, which of course makes things much easier.

He wins her over with the aid of fried fish which she initially regards with as much suspicion as her sister had.

'Thank you', the little girl with reddish blonde hair says solemnly when he hands her the dish of fish and vegetables, and then turns to her sister. 'Tuilë, are you going to eat the heads?'

'Yes, I am. I have eaten this food once before with Carnistir and dared to eat the whole fish, because he promised me they were very tasty.'

Cirincë scrunches up her freckled nose and looks at Carnistir. 'Do you promise me too?'

It seems that the astonishing blue-green eyes run in the family. Cirincë's are very big and wide on her small, narrow face. Carnistir thinks it is probably very difficult for anyone to deny her anything.

'I promise', he says to Cirincë. The girl nods and takes a bite of fish, and when she grins up at him as widely as she can with her mouth full, Carnistir knows that he has passed the test and won an ally.

His father is tougher to win over, of course. Carnistir believes there is little more to be gained by shouting more at Fëanáro and he knows himself well enough that he knows he isn't the best person to patiently convince someone, so he asks his mother for advice.

Nerdanel advises a light touch. Carnistir asks for more specific instructions. He isn't sure that he understands completely what his mother advises him to do, but he tries his best, and no doubt she is also doing what she can to help his case.

Fëanáro doesn't shout at Carnistir during that week (not about Tuilindien, anyway) and grumbles only moderately when Carnistir leaves the forge every day at midday. He works long days to make sure his father can't blame Tuilindien for making him neglect his work.

Fëanáro might clench his teeth and wield his tools with unnecessary force whenever Carnistir mentions Tuilindien – just small mentions every now and then, the light touch that his mother suggested – but he listens, and he doesn't say anything cruel. Carnistir supposes that is the best he could hope for.

He bites his lips bloody to keep his temper in check for the whole week, though, and goes for long, wild rides too late at night because he needs some time for himself when he can do just what he wants without holding back. His horse, energetic creature that she is, is very pleased, but neighbours complain about the hoofbeats on the street around midnight. Carnistir grudgingly promises his mother not to gallop before he gets out of the city.

None of that matters, anyway, not as long as he can see Tuilindien every day. He asks about progress on her presentation every day and to his delight, she tells him that talking about it to him is very nice and comforting for her, for she is nervous about how it will go.

On some days she seems a little nervous about him too, on those days when he arrives in a foul mood from his father's forge. But as his irritation slowly melts away while they eat and converse, so does her trepidation and the watchfulness and carefulness in her eyes and manner.

Carnistir himself is nervous the day he has to deliver the news that his father, or in fact his entire family, will come to the colloquium to see her presentation and the others that are scheduled for the same morning.

'All of you?' Tuilindien asks, a little pale. 'Even the little twins?'

Carnistir shrugs awkwardly. 'Father thinks it is high time for them to gain an understanding of scholarly processes.'

'They will surely be bored', she says, and Carnistir agrees. 'Well, at least I am reasonably sure that I can handle any questions or critique that they might have. I'm not so certain about your father.'

'I don't think he means to humiliate you', Carnistir says, just about confident enough that he dares to say this. 'I made him promise that he wouldn't.'

Tuilindien lets out a choked little laugh, and Carnistir chuckles too, realising how ridiculous his last words sounded. He shouldn't have to extract promises like that from his father.

'I am sorry, Tuilë', he says, wondering how many times he has already apologised to her. Too many that he would care to list them all. 'I promise, I am not going to let him hurt you. I'll drag him out of the event if I have to, I swear I will. I'm taller than him now, and I'm sure my mother would help. She is much stronger than she looks.'

He is immeasurably gratified when Tuilindien smiles at his silly promise. 'Thank you for letting me know that they are coming', she replies. 'I have been wondering if your father would, so I suppose it is a relief to have confirmation.'

'I will sit next to him and keep him in check', Carnistir promises again and though Tuilindien's smile is trembling it is still there, and it is enough.

*

When Fëanáro and Nerdanel's family enters the amphitheatre where the colloquium is held, Carnistir shoves Curufinwë aside so that he can walk right behind his father. Curufinwë has been insufferable ever since he returned home two days ago, making pointed remarks about Carnistir's schedule and meetings with Tuilindien, so Carnistir doesn't feel very bad about making him almost walk into a wall.

Fëanáro leads his family to the front row where an embarrassed Maitimo has been keeping seats for his parents and brothers. Thanks to Carnistir and Nerdanel's manoeuvrings Fëanáro ends up sitting between the two of them. The cold look he gives them both says that he knows he is being supervised and he doesn't appreciate it, but Carnistir barely notices it. He's looking to the side of the stage where Tuilindien stands with her father, their heads bent close as Ingolmo whispers some last-minute advice or support to his daughter.

Tuilindien looks a little nervous but not as much as some of the other young scholars waiting for their turns. Carnistir closes his eyes for a moment to concentrate on their connection in an effort to send encouragement.

When she takes to the stage Tuilindien notices him and gives him that shy little smile he has come to know well, Carnistir smiles back despite the anxiousness he feels for as well as because of his father who sits very still and very expressionless beside him. When Tuilindien begins speaking, Carnistir quiets the mental connection for her sake.

He hasn't attended as many scholarly presentations about language as Maitimo or Curufinwë, and very few since he came of age and gained the right to choose how to further educate himself, but he knows enough of such events to recognise that Tuilindien does well in spite of her nervousness that is greater than it would have been without the complications brought on by Fëanáro. 

Her voice is a little quiet at first, and her speech fluctuates between Vanyarin and Noldorin varieties for a while before settling into pure Vanyarin. She must have realised that there is no need to accommodate her listeners since most are experts of language and will be comfortable listening to Vanyarin. As she gets deeper into her subject she gains confidence and begins speaking with conviction, laying out her arguments clearly and methodically.

Carnistir steals quick glances at his father when Tuilindien begins discussing the weaknesses of the early work of Fëanáro's that she's commenting on. She covers them thoroughly and offers her own counterarguments, but unlike some scholars Carnistir has seen debating a work, she doesn't grow agitated or combative. She stays her own calm, sweet self even when talking about a mistake Fëanáro made 'whose egregiousness can only be explained by the groundbreaking nature of the work as a whole'.

Carnistir feels his father twitch at that and upon glancing at him sees that his expression has grown ever more forbidding, but he relaxes substantially after Tuilindien mentions that he presented a reformulated, less problematic version of the theory in question in a later work of his.

During the second half of her presentation Tuilindien introduces a draft of her own reformulation, or further development, of Fëanáro's theory. Here she finally grows more animated, gesticulating excitedly as she explains her future plans on the subject.

Carnistir's eyes flicker between her, admiring how lovely she looks now that she is a little flushed with excitement, and his father, who still sits with his arms crossed on his chest. He looks less than pleased but Carnistir thinks  – and dearly hopes that he isn't just imagining things out of desperation – that there might be a reluctant acceptance hiding behind his father's scowl.

Carnistir is certainly very proud of Tuilindien. It cannot have been easy to discuss Fëanáro's work in front  of him (her choice of topic was a rather brave one to begin with, he realises) and she has reached the end of her presentation without losing her composure.

He catches her eye when her gaze sweeps over the audience as she invites them to ask her questions and share their opinions, and tries to convey his congratulations in his expression. The Valar know how odd his face ends up looking, for she flushes and stumbles over her next sentence, but she gathers herself again soon and finishes with confidence.

There are a few comments and questions as soon as she stops speaking. Carnistir keeps an eye on Fëanáro in case he speaks up to say something provocative or rude even though he promised not to, but Carnistir and Nerdanel's vigilance turns out to be unnecessary, for Fëanáro remains quiet if attentive.

When the comments from the audience come to an end Tuilindien glances at her feet for a moment, then raises her gaze and looks at the front row. Carnistir thinks she is looking at him again, but when she speaks her words are aimed at his father.

'Prince Fëanáro, it has been an honour to present my views on your work. Do you have any comments to make?' Tuilindien's voice is soft, but her blue-green gaze is steady. Carnistir can feel his heart beating faster.

'I thank you for your attention and insights on an old work of mine. That is all.' Fëanáro bows his head ever so slightly in a nod of approval. 'I expect you and I will have many discussions on matters of language in days to come.'

Carnistir lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. His father's tone was hardly friendly but the words with their implication of approval and acceptance were more than he had dared to expect. Fëanáro has always been able to surprise everyone, sometimes even in good ways.

Tuilindien thanks Fëanáro and the rest of the audience and steps off the stage to take a seat to the side as the next scholar begins his presentation. Though he too speaks well, Carnistir and his family listen to him with less interest than to Tuilindien. Carnistir cranes his neck every now and then to peek at her, but though she still looks a little flustered, and happier now than she did while before the audience, she is clearly concentrating on the current speaker and doesn't notice his looks.

After that speech it is thankfully the time for a break. The senior scholar  hosting the proceedings takes to the stage and announces that the next presentation will be in two hours' time. There is a round of polite applause after which the amphitheatre fills with chatter as people begin discussing the recent presentations as well as their plans for the break.

Carnistir heads straight for Tuilindien. He can hear several of his family members getting up and following him, but he is no longer keeping an eye on them. As long as he makes it to Tuilindien first it'll be alright.

She greets him as soon as he reaches her side. 'Carnistir.'

She'd already been talking to someone and thanks and dismisses them with a graceful nod before turning to Carnistir. She wears that nervous smile again, but it's close to turning into a real, joyful one.

'You were wonderful', he tells her. 'All your preparation paid off.'

And there it is, the joy, bringing a new flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Carnistir loosens his control on their connection so that he can feel it there as well. They have become rather good at controlling the flow of emotions between them during the last week.

They gaze at each other silently and stupidly for a moment, until Carnistir senses disquiet from Tuilindien. He turns around swiftly to see who is behind him, a curse already on his lips. Instead he says, low, as a warning, 'Father.'

'Carnistir.' Fëanáro makes a bow to Tuilindien, a small one but well within the boundaries of politeness. 'Lady Ingolmiel. Congratulations on your presentation.'

Nerdanel appears beside her husband, looking flushed and hauling two bored-looking red-headed boys behind her. 'Yes, you spoke beautifully!' she adds, far more effusive than Fëanáro. 'I was glad to see that you were able to overcome your nervousness so soon. You started enjoying yourself, didn't you?'

'I did', Tuilindien replies. Carnistir can see her looking curiously at his youngest brothers who look like they are trying and very nearly failing to resist the temptation of poking each other behind their mother's skirts.

'How did you find the first linguistic lectures you attended?' she enquires of them, playfulness in her voice.

The Ambarussar look at each other in slight panic at being spoken to unexpectedly. Telufinwë recovers first and, clearly attempting to be on his best behaviour, replies, 'They were very interesting. My lady…'

The title is given as a question; evidently the etiquette lessons the twins' parents and eldest brother have given them have not made it clear how they should address visiting Vanyarin noblewomen who are older than them but not very old.

'We didn't understand everything', the more straightforward Pityafinwë admits. Telvo scowls at him.

'It is alright –' begins Tuilindien but falls silent because Fëanáro had begun speaking at the same time.

He says with exaggerated fond exasperation, 'I am certain that had you two concentrated more on listening and less on gawking around and pointing out odd clothes, you'd have understood more.'

'This is a scholarly event, not an exhibition of fashions', Nerdanel says somewhat sharply.

Carnistir thinks of the criticisms Fëanáro has voiced about Vanyarin craftsmanship on several occasions and tries to think of something to say to further deflect his family's attention away from this topic, but as usual he is slower than his father to speak. Thankfully Fëanáro has moved on anyway.

'Your arguments were well presented and the synopsis of my work commendably clear. Some others have managed to make a muddle out of relatively simple matters. I disagree with the structure you chose for your discussion of my work, however. The balance between discussing original, flawed theory and revised version could have been better.'

This time it is Tuilindien who speaks before Carnistir can.

'I chose to balance the discussion as I did, my lord, because your original theory caused such a stir in the scholarly community when you published it, changing the way we view these ancient changes in our languages. I believe I made it clear, though, that you later modified your theory and that the revised version is held to be closer to the truth. Thus I stand by my choices.'

Carnistir doesn't know how she can do this, reply so calmly to criticism of her work and disagree without any heat in her voice. Perhaps it is her nature, perhaps it is the way of the scholarly community of the Vanyar – Carnistir has certainly witnessed passions rising among the Noldor when discussing theoretical matters. A few years ago Curufinwë almost got into a fistfight about the properties of metals.

Tuilindien is just enough shorter than Fëanáro that she has to lift her chin slightly to look him in the eyes. When she does, the long fall of her golden hair – longer than most people's, impractically long, and so beautiful – moves and Carnistir notices the glitter of silver and small blue-green gems among the golden curls.

Seeing her wearing his combs again chokes the words in his throat, and it is probably for the best. The tense silence reigning between them all should be broken by Tuilindien or Fëanáro rather than any clumsy words from Carnistir.

After a lead-heavy moment Fëanáro gives a small nod. 'I can understand your rationale, though I still disagree with your decision. It was a competent performance, anyway.'

'Thank you, my lord.' Tuilindien's curtsy is deeper and more respectful than it was last time, at the ball where Fëanáro insulted her, and Carnistir knows that his father will notice this nuanced display of changing attitude though Carnistir himself would have missed it if all his attention hadn't been on Tuilindien anyway.

In the space of a heartbeat, he realises that though he has at times hoped Tuilindien wasn't so different from him that it is difficult for them to understand each other sometimes, it is a blessing that she isn't like him or his father. If she was she wouldn't have given them another chance.

'Will you come to lunch with me?' he asks her in the now less tense silence, his family forgotten and ignored. He wants her for himself for a moment now.

'Yes', she says simply and turns to his parents; as always she is less able to forget everything around them than he is. 'Your presence here today was an honour, my lord', she says to Fëanáro, and curtsies to Nerdanel and smiles to the twins hiding behind her skirts pretending to be shy.

'I am still interested in linguistic matters even if I focus on different pursuits these days', Fëanáro reminds her. 'Especially when said matters are discussed by one with whom my son has grown so close.' His eyes flicker to Carnistir for a moment. 'I wish you two a pleasant mealtime, though I still –'

' _Father_ ', hisses Carnistir, gripping Fëanáro's wrist.

Fëanáro eyes him with amusement and something a little darker. 'I was saying that I still think one should be cautious when making important choices, such as that of a spouse.'

'I completely agree, my lord.' Tuilindien extends her hand to Carnistir. 'Carnistir, let us go before all the eating places nearby are full. Thank you again for coming, my lord, my lady, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë. I wish you a very pleasant day.'

It is a more graceful exit than Carnistir could manage, and, grateful, he quickly lets go of his father's wrist and entwines his fingers with Tuilindien's instead, the feel of her hand in his familiar now.

Nerdanel bids them goodbye while Fëanáro tells the twins that they'll go seek out Tyelkormo next because it is his turn to look after them for the afternoon.

At the breakfast table Fëanáro had tried to assign the task to Carnistir, but he'd protested that he had plans with Tuilindien. In truth he had only had intentions of making plans, but he'd been determined not to be encumbered with the care of his youngest brothers and furious with his father that he would even try it.

The twins aren't happy about being Tyelkormo's responsibility for the day, though. As Carnistir and Tuilindien head for the amphitheatre exit, he can hear them grumbling about how they'd rather have gone with Carnistir and 'his girl'. They have shown a lot of interest in Tuilindien lately, far from discouraged by Carnistir's irate refusal to talk about her. They had only shut up when he had threatened to no longer let them do the homework for their lessons in his room – their older brothers' bedchambers have always exerted a powerful pull over the Ambarussar.

Carnistir tries to ignore the twins' loud, bright voices and focus on Tuilindien instead. It is easy because the half-dark, half-light part of him that flared up in anger when he saw her dancing with another man is purring, gratified that she is choosing to leave this event where she distinguished herself to spend time alone with him.

'I found the bakery that makes those little lemon cakes you enjoyed so much the night we met', he tells her. 'We can go and pick up a few of those after lunch.'

Tuilindien happily replies, 'I would like that', and Carnistir feels a sweet warmth in his spirit.

Before they make it out of the amphitheatre they hear Tuilindien's name called, and when they look around they see her older sister waving and making her way toward them.

To Carnistir's surprise, Tuilindien groans and keeps walking towards the exit, ignoring her sister.

'Lirulinë just wants to tease me', she explains. 'She's been doing it ever since you and I started seeing each other every day. I've heard at least five comments a day about the 'ardent flames of fresh love' or something like that. She's a really bad poet', she adds at Carnistir's bemused look.

'We have far too many family members', he mutters, not quite quietly enough, and speeds up his steps while keeping an eye for anyone else trying to waylay them.

In the end they escape Lirulinë successfully and make it out of the amphitheatre without further distractions, but halfway to the tavern Carnistir has chosen for lunch they are surprised again.

Tuilindien has just remarked that she feels silly and embarrassed for having spoken Noldorin during her presentation when all other Vanyar had kept to Vanyarin.

'You do speak a little bit funny', a young, slightly winded-sounding voice pipes up from behind them. 'But we could still understand you.'

Carnistir spins around, barely remembering to let go of Tuilindien's hand in time, and bites his tongue to keep from exploding into curses.

'Can we come to lunch with you now?' asks a messy-haired Telufinwë. By his twin's side, Pityafinwë nods his enthusiasm. They have clearly been running, their fine new shoes dusty.

Carnistir swallows down the curses and settles for glaring. 'Where is the useless lout who was supposed to be looking after you? Tyelko', he clarifies to the frowning Ambarussar. 'Did you run away from him again?'

The twins exchange a look. 'Father told us to go to him. We decided to come to you instead.'

And Carnistir had thought that Curufinwë was irritating as a child. 'Coming to us wasn't an option.'

'Carnistir, perhaps they could come with us–' begins Tuilindien.

'No!' he snaps. 'Maybe some other time', he amends a second later, remembering Tuilindien's little sister joining their meal in the park. 'Not now, when they were told they couldn't, and chose to disobey. Even I know they shouldn't be rewarded for disobedience. They have a terrible habit of following people when they've been told to stay behind.'

'We'll take them back, then.' Tuilindien sighs. 'Come on then, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë.' She starts back towards the amphitheatre; Carnistir can feel her irritation, and it fuels it his own.

'Apologise to lady Ingolmiel', he barks at his brothers who aren't looking nearly contrite enough. 'She doesn't speak funny, just different.'

'Carnistir, it's alright –'

'No it isn't!'

'We're sorry', the twins chorus. 'I didn't mean funny in a bad way', Pityo adds.

Carnistir thinks, not for the first time, that his second-youngest brother has as much natural diplomacy as he does. Telufinwë is usually a little more tactful in his words if just as badly behaved in his actions.

Their way back to the amphitheatre passes in silence and bad mood on all sides. Carnistir cannot believe that now that his father seems to have found his reason, his brothers are ruining his time with Tuilindien. Are they never to have any peace? He resolves to arrange a meeting for the two of them that is somewhere more private for once and cannot be interrupted by family members who have too little or too much enthusiasm for their relationship.

He is however relieved to see the next family member who appears: Tyelkormo sprinting down the street towards them at a pace that goes ill with his formal court robes but well with the thunderous expression he's wearing.

'I know, I know', he says before Carnistir can tear into him. 'I messed up. Shout at me later at home, and I'll yell back as usual; now I had best take these two miscreants–' he grabs the twins by the backs of their collars '–and you and your girl continue to wherever you were going.'

Carnistir dearly wants to wipe the smirk off Tyelko's face, preferably very physically, but Tuilindien is here, and he and Tyelko are too old for violence now anyway. (Things between them were much simpler when neither thought they were too old for expressing their anger physically.)

He contents himself with saying, 'You should feed them as soon as possible. Maybe with their bellies full they'll be slow enough that you can keep up with them.'

Tyelkormo just laughs, the infuriating idiot.

Carnistir takes Tuilindien's hand once again. 'Let's go, Tuilë. Again.'

Tuilindien turns to look back at Carnistir's brothers and bids them goodbye. Carnistir doesn't bother.

'Your brother winked at me', she says, confused, when they are back on their way to the tavern again. 'Why did he do that, Carnistir? I thought you and he weren't on particularly good terms. It certainly didn't look like you were just now. Yet it was a friendly sort of wink, I think?'

'He winked because he's the only one of my brothers who has worse manners than I do. Please forget it and him.'

Tuilindien makes a calming noise. 'I will.'

And it is bafflingly easy for her to banish her irritations and return to the elation she'd felt for her presentation having gone well and for his coming to her straight after, or perhaps it is the elation that dispels all negative emotions from her without any conscious effort.

Carnistir wraps himself up in her happiness and concentrates all his willpower on finding his own joy: the simple happiness that is Tuilindien beside him, the floral scent of her hair in his nose, the solidity of her hand in his. Their shared awareness, the connection.

It is not so difficult to let go of anger when there are so many better things to take its place.

*

The next morning Carnistir wakes up unpleasantly early in order to visit his only married brother before they both go to their day's work, though as a musician Makalaurë keeps a much less regular schedule than anyone else in the family.

Carnistir arrives at Makalaurë and Tinweriel's house just as the lady of the house is leaving. She mentions where she's going but Carnistir doesn't really listen, thinking over what he's going to say to his brother  instead.

It is embarrassing to ask for advice but he is at something of a loss for what to do next with Tuilindien, and Makalaurë is his only married brother. The Valar know he isn't going to ask his father, and he has relied on his mother too much already.

So Makalaurë it must be, but Carnistir still finds it difficult the get the words out once his brother leads him to a sitting room. Makalaurë takes a seat and invites Carnistir to do the same, but he remains standing, or rather paces back and forth on the resplendently colourful carpet. Makalaurë follows his nervous movements first with amusement and then, as Carnistir stays silent but for curt replies to his polite questions, with irritation.

'Please sit down, you're wearing a hole into the carpet and it was a gift from my mother-in-law.'

Carnistir sits down and taps his foot until Makalaurë snaps. 'Say what you came to say or I am throwing you out.'

Carnistir stops tapping but it takes him a moment more of nervous fidgeting to ask his question.

'Cáno. What does one do with a girl one is courting – in private, I mean?'

Makalaurë's jaw drops open, and Carnistir thinks that never in his life has he managed to surprise his brother as completely as by this question. Makalaurë's astonishment is quite satisfying and makes up for some of the embarrassment of asking for romantic advice.

'You don't… I mean… I hope you're not asking for... tips about kissing?' Makalaurë sounds rather horrified for a married man. 'It's a little early for that, isn't it? I know you're impatient, but you have only known her for, what, three weeks –'

'No!' Now Carnistir is just as horrified. As if he would speak about kissing with his brother. 'I mean, I want to ask her to meet me again but more privately this time, because I want spend time with her without countless other people around for once – but what do we _do_? Where should we go?'

'Oh.' Makalaurë pats his own hair as if to make sure the intricate braids haven't somehow come undone during his astonishment. 'Well. There aren't very many options for people like us. Going on walks –'

'We have done that. There is always someone staring here in Tirion.'

'Indoors… there are some more private restaurants, and otherwise being sequestered in a room together is acceptable if you're, say, singing or playing to each other or together. That can be quite pleasant, Tinwië and I did a lot of it together when we were courting…'

Carnistir's scoff fails to banish the fond smile of recollection from his brother's face so he adds in a tone that brooks no argument, 'I am not going to sing to Tuilindien or with her.'

'I don't see why not, you have a quite tolerable voice and I taught you enough that you wouldn't embarrass yourself playing a lyre.' At Carnistir's angry scowl, Makalaurë spreads his hands. 'Very well, no singing or playing. But,' his face brightens, 'you could take her to a concert to listen to music at least, or a poetry-reading or a play perhaps.'

'Those things don't exactly offer a lot of privacy, do they? Just sitting next to her without speaking, listening to other people make noises.' Which would be more pleasant with Tuilindien than with anyone else, but Carnistir wants more.

'"Make noises?" Makalaurë raises one eyebrow. Carnistir remembers him practising that skill in front of a mirror when they were much younger, Carnistir just a disgruntled toddler who had sought refuge in the room of the one brother he knew wouldn't tell him to brighten up.

'You know what I mean', he says. 'I think I'd rather take her on a walk again. Not quite so sedate and dull, if not completely private either.'

'If she likes riding you could go riding with her, show her the environs of Tirion', Makalaurë suggests, and it's the first suggestion Carnistir likes. He likes it very much.

'I will ask if she would like to do that.'

'There is this little forest glade near a waterfall where father sometimes took us on a picnic when you were little. Do you remember the way there?'

'I think so. Do you think it would be a good place to show Tuilindien?'

Makalaurë coughs and blushes a little. 'Tinweriel found it _very_ romantic.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That feeling when you're the equivalent of eight years old and your dad drags you to a scientific conference… poor Ambarussar.
> 
> In the next chapter, Carnistir realises that there are very good reasons why courting is usually done in public places. In other words: the last few chapters have been rough for Tuilë and Carnistir, but in the next one there is warmth and light and fluff and basking in each other's touch.
> 
> I'll be travelling (a trip to Scotland that I'm looking forward to SO much) and spending weekends attending weddings and whatnot in July so it will probably take a month again for me to update this story :/
> 
> I have started posting [Makalaurë and Tinweriel's love story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11211252/chapters/25043949) and that one will be updated weekly because it's mostly written already.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	12. Glowing light and sparkling water, part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an awkward beginning, Carnistir and Tuilindien's riding excursion brings them closer to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologise for this chapter taking ages to arrive but probably everyone following this story knows my infrequent update pace by now. I do my best but health issues and lack of inspiration take their toll. I also finished [Maglor and Tinweriel's courtship story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11211252/chapters/25043949) while struggling with this chapter.
> 
> In the end this chapter turned out so long that I split it into two. The second part will be posted on Monday, so it won't be a long wait.
> 
> I am crazy about horses so there is a fair amount of horse stuff in this chapter. Also: reference images for [Carnistir's horse](https://dwdstock.deviantart.com/art/Bay-Thoroughbred-Mare-Trot-450742390) and [Tuilindien's](https://animals.desktopnexus.com/wallpaper/523283/); [an 'origin story' I wrote for Carnistir and his horse back in January](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9203969).
> 
> The geography of Aman is not clearly described anywhere (not in any detail, anyway) so please bear with my vague, very possibly erroneous, partially made-up descriptions.

Tuilindien is delighted when Carnistir invites her for a ride in the countryside around Tirion, but it takes a few days to find a time when they both can take several hours off their duties.

When the appointed time arrives and Tuilindien fetches her horse and waits outside the Mindon, she is surprised to see that Carnistir doesn't arrive alone. Instead he is flanked by his youngest brothers who ride on dappled grey ponies that are absolutely dwarfed by Carnistir's long-legged bay mare. The mare doesn't appear keen on the company of the ponies, though the twins seem to be controlling them well enough to stay out of the her way.

'Good day, lady Ingolmiel!' one of the twins greets with a wide smile already from afar.

'Good day –' she realises she doesn't know which twin it was, so she greets both by name as well as a warm smile. 'Pityafinwë, Telufinwë. Carnistir.' The older brother gets a different kind of smile.

Carnistir doesn't quite manage to smile back. He looks rather harassed, just like his horse. 'They are not coming with us', he says in lieu of a greeting when he and his brothers come to a stop. Carnistir's horse prances in place and eyes Tuilindien and her horse with distrust. 'I am just escorting them to grandfather. We'll have to go by the palace stables before you and I can ride out of the city.'

'Very well. That's not far, is it?' Tuilindien replies. She turns to the groom holding her horse, and he helps her mount.

As she gathers the reins and urges Mirwannë to a slow walk suitable for the busy city and for accompanying little boys on their ponies, she notices Carnistir staring at her.

'Is something wrong?'

'You ride side-saddle', he says as they turn to a side street.

'Yes.' She settles her long skirt better over her knees and arranges Mirwannë's mane more neatly for good measure. 'I understand it's not very common among the Noldor, but this is how I've always ridden.'

One of the twins points out that it looks difficult, and Tuilindien replies that it isn't when one is accustomed to it. 'And all riding is a little bit difficult at first, isn't it?'

The twins agree. 'Carnistir and Tyelko and Curvo have been teaching us', one of them tells her. 'And Maitimo too sometimes. He's a patient teacher.'

'And the others are not?' Tuilindien glances at Carnistir, daring to tease gently, remembering how Nerdanel was with Fëanáro.

'These two were always wanting to gallop before they knew how to trot', Carnistir replies and frowns at the twins before transferring the frown to her. 'Tuilë, I had planned a route for us that would go up a rather steep hill. Is that a problem for you?'

He is still eyeing her saddle with suspicion, and she realises that side-saddles must be even rarer among the Noldor than she thought. 'Carnistir, I live on a mountain', she reminds him. 'I am very used to steep inclines, and so is Mirwannë.' She pats her horse's neck, then changes the subject. 'Tell me, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë, have you had your ponies for long? They look like very nice steeds.'

'We got them a while ago but we haven't been allowed to ride on the streets without someone holding on for a long time yet. But I jumped a fence on a field last week!' The boy's freckled face beams with pride. Tuilindien wishes she knew how to tell them apart, so that she could congratulate him by name.

'It wasn't a fence. It was too low to be a fence', the other redhead argues.

His twin's expression becomes thunderous. 'Yes it was! You're just jealous because you couldn't –'

'Ambarussar!' Carnistir barks out, looking far more like a thundercloud than his sweet if squabbling little brothers ever could. 'No arguing. I told you.'

'Yes, Carnistir', the twins chorus while still making faces at each other, and then they are at the stables where the twins dismount and wave to Carnistir and Tuilindien before being led away by a stern-faced servant who will take them to their grandfather.

'They have been pestering me for another riding lesson so I thought I should at least escort them here, since I was riding through the city anyway', Carnistir explains, looking far more embarrassed than Tuilindien thinks there is any reason to be.

'It was a good idea', she smiles. 'They seem to appreciate spending time with you.'

Carnistir huffs as they leave the stable yard and return to the street. 'Be careful about not riding right behind me', he warns. 'Even if the streets get congested. Varnerocco – my horse – doesn't like other horses right behind her.'

'Very well', Tuilindien says, a little bemused, and makes sure to stay beside Carnistir and his still testy-looking mare who has a red ribbon tied to her tail that is swishing irritatedly.

'It's good that your horse isn't a stallion. Varnë has problems with stallions.'

Tuilindien thinks that Varnë sounds like a rather difficult horse, and looks like one too. 'Does she get amorous with them, then?' she ventures to ask.

'More like murderous.' Carnistir looks uncomfortable, but continues talking about his horse as they make their way through busy streets towards the city gates. He tells her of how Varnë was a gift chosen by his brother Tyelkormo, intended mainly to drive Carnistir to distraction, but he had taken a liking to her eventually. 'She's faster than any of my brothers' stallions', he says with clear pride.

'She looks like it.' Tuilindien likes the way Carnistir is with his horse – even while he talks bluntly of her bad habits and she demonstrates them by pretending to be spooked by ordinary city bustle, snorting and sidestepping, he keeps scratching her withers, and he holds her in check by keeping a firm seat rather than pulling at the reins.

'You can show me her speed once we get to the open country', Tuilindien continues. 'I am very much looking forward to that. Tirion is beautiful but I have never stayed so long inside city walls as I have on this visit. Poor Mirwannë must have felt terribly neglected.'

'I also dislike being only in the city too long –'

But then Carnistir has to concentrate on steering his tempestuous mare through the throng of many other horses and wagons approaching the gate, and they don't talk before they are well out of the city.

While they maintain a sedate pace until they can leave the road and head for the hills, Tuilindien notices Carnistir stealing glances at her saddle again. 'Is something wrong?' she asks, internally sighing, and tightening her hold on their connection to keep her frustration to herself.

'It seems so incredibly impractical', he says.

Tuilindien shrugs. 'Perhaps it is. But it is the way Vanyarin women ride, and many men too.'

'The queen rides astride.'

Tuilindien knows that he means queen Indis, for that is how he always refers to her – not as 'grandfather's wife' or 'queen Indis' or 'Indis', always just 'the queen', distantly, as if he were no closer to her than any Noldo. It bothers her more than a little, because it is a reminder of how Fëanáro's cool attitude to his father's second wife seems to have been passed on to his sons. Tuilindien cannot help but feel kinship with Indis, and wonder if there would also be some among the Noldor who would never truly accept her marriage to Carnistir, should it take place.

'Queen Indis has adopted almost all Noldorin habits, hasn't she?' she reminds him. 'Speech and dress and also the way of riding.'

'Yes', Carnistir admits, and the question of whether Tuilindien would do the same hangs in the air between them, unspoken yet heavy.

She decides to address it anyway, indirectly at least. 'She wanted to show respect to the your people by adopting your customs when she became your queen. But most men and women who marry into the Noldor don't go quite so far, I believe. They keep some of their own lifelong habits, and I think that is understandable. Don't you?'

'It is, it's very understandable. Tuilë, I didn't mean – I didn't – it seems impractical to me but I didn't mean to say that you shouldn't do it.' He is red with the exertion of looking for the right words.

'You didn't', she reassures him, because he didn't, not in so many words. 'It is alright, Carnistir. It is alright to wonder at my odd habits, as I sometimes wonder at yours, as long as we let each other do as we wish. Now.' She looks at the wagons around them, then at Carnistir's horse who is prancing ever more frantically. 'Could we get off the road here? Varnë looks like she'd prefer a less crowded environment.'

'Yes, we should do that', Carnistir says with a start, clearly shaken from deep thought. 'We'll head for those forested foothills.'

'Are we going into the forest?' He hasn't told her exactly where they are going, and she is curious.

'Yes, and all the way to the mountainside within the forest. There's a nice place there I want to show you. We'll have lunch there.'

*

They turn off the road, circle around some bushes and trot into the open uncultivated field between the road and the foothills along the entrance to Calacirya, the Pass of Light through which the light of the Two Trees shines into Eldamar and to Tirion within it.

The light is a little bit brighter already here than it is in Tirion, and as Carnistir struggles to keep Varnë at a reasonable speed – she always gets too excited at wide open spaces – he sees Tuilindien turn her face into the golden glow and smile, exuding simple happiness at the warmth and brightness.

She glows golden herself.

It is something of a pity to suggest that they canter to the edge of the forest, because he has a feeling he would happily watch her enjoy the light until it turns to cool silver. But Varnë is getting so restless that Carnistir knows she will soon embarrass him if she doesn't get to run, and anyway he has a plan and intends to stick to it.

'The horses are warmed up now, we should let them run', he says.

Tuilindien turns her bright eyes to him and nods. 'Don't hold her back, I'll catch up with you', she says, acknowledging that her own horse will likely be slower.

There are no more words, just the rush of wind in their ears, until they are at the forest's edge where they slow down their horses, both of them joyful and windswept from the quick ride. Tuilindien seemed to do just fine in her side-saddle, directing her horse with minute movements of her hands as well as soft-spoken words. Mirwannë is clearly well-trained and docile enough that there is no need for the iron grip that Carnistir keeps with his legs on Varnë, and he finally manages to stop worrying about her.

'The climb is right ahead now', he tells Tuilindien. 'It's steep but unless there has been a landslide since I was last here, it's an easy climb. Curvo managed it as a child.'

'Your family came here, then?'

Carnistir nods and tells her of the day-long trips his parents took him and his brothers on when they were too busy for longer travels. Tuilindien asks about those longer travels, then, and he tells her about them while they make their way up the forested hillside.

(It is easy talking with her. She always asks the right questions.)

The quality of light is interesting here, the greenness of the forest shot through with rays and patches of bright light from Calacirya. As they approach the top of this north-eastern foothill of Taniquetil, the forest grows denser and they have to ride farther apart to make their way through the trees. Their conversation gradually dwindles, and they just listen to birdsong and to the clip-clop of the horses' hooves and the quiet jingling of their tack.

'I hear water', Tuilindien calls out after a good while of quiet riding, steering her horse closer to Carnistir's. 'Is there a waterfall nearby?'

'It's our destination.'

'How lovely!'

Perhaps it was worth the embarrassment to ask Makalaurë for advice, Carnistir muses. Already he is enjoying being in Tuilindien's company without anyone to observe or interrupt them.

When they arrive to the light-filled glade before the small waterfall and Tuilindien gasps in delight at the sight, he decides that it was definitely worth it.

'It's so beautiful! The little flowers in the grass, and the sparkling water –' Tuilindien stops her horse, hops down and runs a few steps towards the waterfall before coming to a sudden stop and turning to beam at Carnistir, her arms wrapped around body as if she is hugging herself in her joy. 'Oh, Carnistir, thank you for bringing me here. This is a lovely place!'

'I'm glad you like it', he says gruffly. 'We'll have lunch here, so let's unsaddle the horses.' He dismounts and takes off Varnë's bridle and saddle, telling her sternly to stay in the clearing. Varnë snorts loudly and takes a few rebellious steps away from him, but then settles to graze. Tuilindien's Mirwannë looks around curiously for a moment before doing the same.

Carnistir takes the food he brought from his saddlebag and Tuilindien a blanket from hers that he'd asked her to bring.

They drop the food and the blanket in the middle of the glade and go take a closer look at the waterfall. Somewhere along the way Tuilindien's hand finds Carnistir's and he gladly clasps it, feeling the pulsing of happiness from within her like another steady heartbeat. She is relaxed and open, her tight control on their connection relinquished, and he relaxes his too. There is nothing he needs to hide at this moment.

There is a small pool at the bottom of the waterfall, and they walk right up to its bank.

'It must be snowmelt from the top of the holy mountain', Tuilindien says with a touch of reverence. Taniquetil is so high that the snow at the top only begins melting in late summer.

She looks up, past the peak from which the water falls, but the mountain's great height makes it impossible to see where the stream of water originates. Tuilindien's face mists over with the spray of tiny droplets from the waterfall, and she shakes her head, laughing. 'It is certainly cold enough to be melted snow.'

Carnistir laughs too, wiping at his own face, and bends down together with her when she kneels to dip her hands into the pool. 'Uh, _very_ cold', she says, but cups her hands and drinks. Carnistir wonders if the water holds some sacred significance to her or if she is just thirsty, but thinks it best not to ask. He has a feeling he has been discourteous enough about the customs of the Vanyar for one day.

After a moment longer of admiring the glitter of light on the water they make their way back to the middle of the glade. Tuilindien spreads the blanket while Carnistir takes out the wine and food.

'You don't always need to bring me Vanyarin wine', Tuilindien notes when he pours it for her. 'Not that I don't appreciate the gesture. But I am growing used to Noldorin varieties.'

Carnistir gives her a smile he's sure is crooked. 'And I'm getting used to Vanyarin.'

'Oh.' Tuilindien laughs and blushes, her eyes sparkling again now that they are in bright light once more. 'That is good, I suppose.'

They nibble on the food and talk about pleasant, insignificant things like the training of horses and sightings of forest animals and antics of younger siblings. Carnistir feels a twinge of guilt for how little time he has spent recently with the twins and another of irritation for Curufinwë's recent behaviour, for entirely different yet slightly related reasons, because they both have to do with Tuilindien. The latter he keeps to himself, but mentions the former to her.

'They have been behaving worse than usual lately', he says. 'Mother says it is because things at home have been restless. I have been spending less time with them than usual, too. It's a long time since our last riding lesson.'

'Hopefully things will calm down soon.' Tuilindien slices an apple and offers half to him. 'The royal visit of my king is soon coming to a close, at least, which should mean less busy times for your royal family.'

Carnistir says nothing to that, just eats the apple slices with eagerness verging on violence. He is as aware of Tuilindien's sudden unhappiness at the thought of her going home as he is of his own.

There is a splash of comforting warmth from her as she asks, 'Are you coming to the harvest festival? It is not long until then.' Her fingers play with the blades of the late-summer grass, still lush here near the waterfall but yellowing in many other places.

'I have not gone every year', Carnistir admits. 'My father…'

He does not need to say any more, for both of them know that Fëanáro has wanted little to do with the Vanyar or the Valar since his father's second marriage, and at the annual harvest festival on Taniquetil the Vanyar and Noldor join together to praise the Valar.

'But my mother's family goes every year', he hastens to add. 'And I will certainly go with them this year, for you will be there, will you not?'

'I will', Tuilindien smiles. 'I am there every year. I like dancing on the grass on the mountainside even if I get nervous when doing it in grand halls.'

'I should like to dance with you there', says Carnistir, having almost overcome his general dislike of that activity, and considers whether he should have a ring ready by the time of the festival. Makalaurë would tell him that he is being too hasty, but then again, Makalaurë's own courting hadn't gone all that smoothly for a long time, so he is perhaps not the best authority on the matter.

'We shall see each other there, then.' Tuilindien wraps her arms around her bent-up knees and smiles into them, as if her joy is so overflowing it must be hidden.

'And after that?' he asks. 'Will you come to Tirion again?'

She tilts her head to one side and looks at him. 'I don't know yet', she answers. 'I think… we should plan that later. When we know how things are then.'

Carnistir thinks it is rather clear how things are or at least how they _should_ be, but before he can put it into reasonably careful words, Tuilindien changes the subject abruptly. 'I thought some more about your remarks on my side-saddle.'

Carnistir has a sense of foreboding that she will make him regret those remarks, but she continues quite amiably. 'I think it comes down to how the Noldor and Vanyar value tradition and innovation and practicality differently.'

This is not a topic Carnistir expected to discuss right after a rather weighty conversation about their future, but perhaps it is still part of that same conversation in some way that he doesn't quite understand? He decides to choose his words carefully just in case.

'I suppose it does', he says. 'I see impracticality where you see adherence to tradition.'

Tuilindien nods. 'We Vanyar do like our long robes and dresses. A side-saddle is necessary for riding in those. And it is practicality of sorts, isn't it, that we don't need so many separate clothes for riding?'

An odd sort of practicality, Carnistir thinks, but nods anyway, and then ruins his diplomacy by blurting out, 'Your hair is impractical too. Impractically long, I mean.'

'Oh', says Tuilindien, confused, touching nervous fingers to the long, long braid twined around her head like a crown. Carnistir knows by now that when left to flow freely down her back, it reaches her hips even though it's very curly.

'It's a good thing, though', he says, internally cursing the double misfortune that is always speaking what is on his mind and not having inherited any of his father's skill with words. 'Because it's also beautiful. So it is good that there is more of it.'

Tuilindien smiles into her knees again.

'And it glimmers in the brighter light here', Carnistir continues, emboldened. 'So I am all the more glad that I brought you here.'

'It is very nice here, isn't it, just the two of us in this wonderful place.'

'Yes it is. Even though I am constantly putting my foot in my mouth.'

'Don't worry about it, Carnistir', she says. 'You usually make your meaning clear afterwards, even if I don't always understand you correctly at first. And I think – I really am coming to think that it is all right that we are very different and from different peoples with different customs, as long as we keep trying to understand each other and getting better at it. I feel like I am coming to learn you, though it is not easy.'

'But I'm very straightforward', he protests. 'Everything I feel shows on my face and in my voice. I am very bad at concealing anything.'

'Hmm. Yes, you're right, it is easy to know what you feel, but it is more difficult to know _why_ you feel the way you do.'

'I'm sure you'll learn to know that', he says, because he realises that it is important for her to do so. 'You are good with that sort of thing. And you can ask me when you think that would help.'

'Thank you, I will.' Tuilindien sits up straight. 'Are you going to eat more?'

'No. Unless –' he furrows his brows purposefully fiercely, wiggling them a little, then feels exceedingly silly about it '– that is the only way to keep you here longer.'

She laughs merrily, which is worth feeling silly for, and says, 'I am not needed back in the city for a while yet, and happy to stay here just to talk with you.'

Together they tidy up the remnants of their meal and put them back into the saddlebag, safely tucked away from ants and other little beasts that might want their share.

Tuilindien settles to sit comfortably on the blanket again, gazing at the waterfall, and Carnistir sits close to her now that there is no need to leave space for food between them.

She takes his hand in hers again and they sit in quiet contentedness, Tuilindien watching the rushing, sparkling water and Carnistir watching Tuilindien, until she turns to him and says shyly, 'Your hair is also lovely.'

'Not as lovely as yours', he argues, while well aware that his face must be turning into a riot of colour. 'My hair is just black. Yours is many shades of golden and light brown, and in a certain light it's yellowish or reddish, and in direct light of Laurelin it glows.'

'So does yours', Tuilindien says, and lifts her free hand a little, as if in a hesitant touch. Carnistir bows his head towards her and she does touch, a whisper-light caress to his hair above his temple.

'It is softer than I thought', she says in delight, stroking lightly. 'It is so thick and straight I thought it would be coarse, but it is soft. And it shines with a reddish tint in candlelight, you know.'

'I didn't.' No one has ever spoken about his hair like that.

'When one looks at things for a long time they turn out to be more complicated and beautiful than one first thought', she muses. 'Did you know there are tiny, very dark blue flecks in your eyes?'

 _Does one look at anything for that long unless one already thinks it worth the attention?_ Carnistir wonders. ''They must be from my father', he says. 'He and many others in our family have bluish eyes.'

'But no one has eyes like yours, so dark grey with little bits of blue.'

Tuilindien's gentle hand is still on his hair, and her gaze is on him, and Carnistir thinks it ridiculous how good he feels in this moment. It could almost be mistaken for hurting.

'Tuilindien', he says, his mouth dry – he would blame the Vanyarin wine if it wasn't so childish. 'Can I touch you?'

In spite of his clumsily worded question she doesn't deny him or ask for clarification, just drops her hand from his hair and scoots a little closer, that familiar small and nervous smile curving her lips. Her eyes are soft, soft, soft.

Carnistir cups one side of her face and she leans into his hand like an affectionate cat, closing her eyes, making him notice that her lashes are light brown. He decides that she was right about things turning out more and more complicated and beautiful the longer one looks at them, and that he was right about no one bothering to look for so long at anything if one didn't already find it beautiful.

He moves his hand to the glorious crown her hair is wound into, thinking that he would like to adorn it with twinkling gemstones and little chains of dark silver, at the same time realising that it is nicer to touch when there is nothing in the way of him sliding his fingers along the slightly dishevelled silky braid.

Her eyes still closed, Tuilindien smiles, no longer nervous, just content, basking in the touch. Her smile is soft, like her skin and her hair and the touch of her fingers and the way she speaks, and the folds of her dresses and the way she directs her horse, and Carnistir never knew he could like soft things this much. He didn't think he was the kind of person who would.

Or… perhaps there are already things in his life that are soft that he loves.

His mother's smile when he helps her out with something.

Opening the window of his room when he has locked the door and wants to be alone but also wants to let sounds from the garden and other open windows drift in, especially Makalaurë making music or the Ambarussar playing.

The comfortable silence that often reigns when he and his friend Ontamo meet and work on their own designs for hours, consulting each other every now and then but mostly content to be quiet together.

Covering the twins with a warm blanket when they've fallen asleep in some odd place, as they often do.

The neighbour's cat, who spends more time in the garden of Carnistir's family than anywhere else and is silly enough to climb trees too high for him to dare to jump down from, and then mewls pitifully until rescued. These days he goes limp and pliant when Carnistir climbs up and brings him down, though the first few times he scratched and bit. He has long grey fur softer than velvet.

These are all soft things. There are other kinds of things he likes as well, but he does like these things too, and there is nothing wrong with that, is there?

He tries to touch Tuilindien as softly as she touched him, with reverence and affection, and perhaps he succeeds because he can feel that she is so happy at his touch, as happy as he is to touch her. It puts an end to his fear that her insistence on staying proper before wasn't just because she was scared of gossip.

'Your hands are always so warm', Tuilindien sighs. 'I… I like being like this with you, Carnistir. Just you and me, just… free.'

'Yes', he agrees roughly, running a gentle finger along her jaw. It is dangerous because it makes him look at her lips, and they look so soft too, and he _knows_ that they would be wonderful to touch with his own lips. He knows it with the kind of certainty that can cut through stone.

But Tuilindien isn't stone, or if she is she is a precious stone, and she must be handled with care and respect.

'Tuilë', he says, and, 'I know you've asked us to go slow and I promised, but I very much want to kiss you right now.'

Tuilindien opens her eyes and looks at him. 'You said that like it is a puzzle to solve', she says. To his relief her happiness in their connection hasn't wavered.

(It makes things so much easier that he knows how she feels without any words being spoken about it. He often doesn't, with most people, and he supposes it is one of the many reasons he isn't very good at getting along with people.)

After a quick moment of thinking he replies, 'I suppose it is. I'm asking you for the answer.'

She surprises him by saying, contemplatively, 'I have dreamed of kissing you, and haven't known if it was a vision of things to come or just a reflection of my heart's desires. My dreams tend to be ambiguous when they aren't memories. In any case, I think the answer to your puzzle is _yes_.'

'Yes?' he repeats, barely believing it.

She nods, and comes a little closer still, until their knees are brushing. 'Just _yes_.'

Damn Makalaurë and his advice, Carnistir decides. Tuilindien says _yes_ and she has dreamed of them kissing, and he wants to give her everything she dreams of, and it is painful not to be kissing her.

So he does, bending his head the little that it takes to close the distance between them and curling his hand around her nape, pressing his lips to hers.

They _are_ soft, and they taste of the sweet honeyed wine, and kissing them is whatever is the opposite of pain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As already stated above, the second part, which continues directly from where this one left off, will be posted on Monday. I'd appreciate any comments about this part in the meanwhile!
> 
> (Also, yes, Carnistir comparing Tuilindien to a stone, even in his mind, is purposefully rather terrible. He is no poet, and never claims to be. He means well though.)


	13. Glowing light and sparkling water, part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We pick up right where we left off, only this chapter is from Tuilindien's point of view since most of the last chapter was from Carnistir's. This chapter is shorter than the last, but I hope you enjoy it as much as Carnistir and Tuilë do!

When Carnistir's lips touch hers Tuilindien makes a little noise and almost startles herself by it, for it is an entirely new kind of noise that she has never made before. But then she has never felt like _this_.

She raises her hands and buries them in Carnistir's hair, further messing up the loose plait it was gathered into, but surely that is alright and allowed now. Holding onto him gently, needing that to anchor herself, she does her best to answer the kiss.

It is easy to lose herself on his lips. He is so warm all around her, so focused on her, so obviously full of delight and pleasure and passion at kissing her that it makes her want to move even closer, to get rid of any distance between them, so she does until she is halfway to sitting on his lap.

Carnistir puts his arms around her waist and pulls her there all the way, causing their teeth to clash, making her smile and then laugh, a silly little laugh that makes her cheeks flame. She lays her head on his broad shoulder, and he rubs her back comfortingly. She thinks he has probably done the same with his little brothers, but that's not a bad thought.

'Why are you embarrassed?' he murmurs.

She hides her face in his fine leather jerkin. 'I make such silly noises.'

He makes a disagreeing noise of his own. 'You make wonderful noises.'

She can feel that he means it and the _way_ he means it makes her fervently want to kiss him again. So she does, leaning down towards him since she is the taller now that she is on his lap (and how well she fits there after the initial awkwardness has passed!) and drawing him towards her. He comes more than willingly, his arms holding her around her waist again, grasping her a little tighter when the two of them discover that the second kiss is even better than the first. It is a little less hesitant and slow, still soft and sweet.

Until Tuilindien cannot help but gasp at the loveliness of it and Carnistir's tongue slips into her open mouth, and they explore this new way of kissing. Soon their hands around each other are clutching tight and somehow desperate, and she is making many small noises in her throat and Carnistir is feeling lightheaded and sharing it with her.

After an age, she pulls away – that is how things always go with them – but keeps holding on to him and rests her forehead against his as she blinks away the stars in her eyes.

'It was better than the dreams.' It comes out a whisper.

'Yes', he agrees.

She isn't really surprised that he has dreamed of her as well. Their connection goes both ways, their spirits so intertwined that she doesn't know if disentangling them from each other is even an option anymore.

'I am a wild thing with you today', she says, playing with his hair. She wants to get lost in the dark cascade of it, and in the constellations of freckles on his skin. 'I couldn't have imagined doing this so soon, yet it feels so right. I am wild and free and happy, so happy.'

'Good.' His voice is low and it does _things_ to her as do his fingers that are drawing little figures on the small of her back. 'I want to make you happy', he continues. 'And it makes me so happy as well to touch you and kiss you. I have never touched anyone like this before.'

She knows what he means. Even though many of the things they do are things that both of them have done with family members or friends – embracing, stroking hair – this feels so utterly different. Intimate and warm and, in an undercurrent, more than warm; heated. The longer they kiss the warmer she feels, the light summer clothes she wears suddenly stifling and restrictive.

They have been courting for a little while already but while long conversations have brought them closer none of that compares to this, to touching and being close to each other just for the delight in doing so, to gain pleasure and to give it to the one they care about.

It is thrilling to get to touch Carnistir like this, and a little odd too. Only a few weeks ago she had never met him and now he has touched her many times and in many ways. His hands (his clever, strong hands with many callouses, and fingernails that always have tiny traces of something dark under them) have lingered on her and so have his lips.

His lips, soft on his stark-boned face, pink against his flushed-dark skin. She traces them with a finger, feels him shiver, loves how it feels to affect him so. She is not especially beautiful but he makes her feel like she is.

'Kiss me once more, Carnistir', she whispers against his lips.

'Why just once', he growls, then drowns her answer and his own annoyance in another kiss, one so exquisite it must be calculated to make her want a thousand more, and a hundred, and another thousand…

But she knows that the time they have to spend in this sweet, intimate world of their own is drawing to a close. It was early afternoon when they rode out from Tirion and now it is late afternoon. Both their families are expecting them to join in different activities for the evening, and if they don't ride back to Tirion soon they will be late. Though Tuilindien would like to let herself just keep indulging in Carnistir's kisses, she knows they must start calming down so that they can begin making the journey back in a little while.

She tightens her arms around his shoulders for a moment, caresses the back of his neck, moves from kissing his mouth to his jaw and cheeks and forehead, and finally nuzzles her nose against his because she thinks it might be a sweet way to end their kiss.

He freezes in surprise for a second, then nuzzles back.

Tuilindien drops her head to his shoulder again, breathes in the smell of leather and horse and Carnistir's lovely warm skin, and speaks without looking at him. It will be enough to feel his displeased disappointment through their connection. She doesn't need to see it on his face as well.

'This has been the most wonderful afternoon, and the most wonderful thing has been being close to you like this.' She presses a small kiss to his neck right where his collar ends. 'I will dream of it, I know. But now it is time for us to pull apart a little, so that we can leave soon. The light is –'

'I know the light is becoming infused with silver.' There is some anger and annoyance in his voice, and more in his mind, but his hands on her back are still gentle, still holding and caressing her, and she relaxes again. 'Not yet so much, though. We can stay a while.'

'We can stay a while', she echoes, but moves off his lap, sitting down with her legs stretched out in front of her to flex them after sitting in his lap for so long. She stays close, right by his side, and after he has stretched out as well she leans towards him a little, and at once he puts a hand around her. They are a little further apart, but still close.

'This is good', Tuilindien says, content. They are facing the waterfall again. The change in the colour of the light has changed the way the water looks as well.

'It is even more beautiful here than I remembered', Carnistir notes, but little of his attention appears to be on the view. 'Tuilë… _vanimelda_ … I know I will dream of this, too. And they will be good dreams. But I want this to be our reality from now on rather than dreams. Would you –'

And then he stops, no doubt because he could feel alarm growing within her as he spoke. Then he repeats, 'Vanimelda?', and the endearment – _beautiful and beloved_ – is a question.

She doesn't want questions, not quite yet, and says so. 'Let us talk seriously before I leave, and not until then', she asks of him.

'You leave so soon! Why should we wait that short time?'

Tuilindien bites her lip and looks down at her feet, indecisive and hesitant.

'Just tell me, whatever it is', Carnistir snaps, apparently against his better judgement, for he radiates regret the next second, and continues, 'If you don't want –'

'No, no!' Oh, how unpleasant this feels after all the pleasantness and delight of this afternoon; they have been in such harmony. She hastens to alleviate his clear fear. 'It isn't that I don't – that is… there is something I didn't tell you before because it isn't certain, but now I am thinking that perhaps I should.'

'Please do.' He speaks less harshly than before, rubbing her arm gently as if in apology.

'I might stay a little longer than originally intended, until the harvest festival at least in fact. As you know I have been working together with or rather under the instruction of loremaster Rúmil, and I have asked him if I might stay on as an assistant for him for a little while. He is beginning research on a topic that interests me greatly. But he hasn't decided yet', she hurries to add, because her hasty sweetheart is grinning already, a rare sight that she would adore if it weren't premature.

'He wants to determine first whether there would in fact be enough for me to do', she continues. 'And if he accepts my assistance, I won't have all that much time for seeing you, as I will be working. Though of course I will try to make as much time as possible –'

He squeezes her, pressing a kiss to her temple, and the touch carries the elation in his spirit through to hers, the frustration complete gone now. 'Of course. We will match our schedules as well as we can, so we can spend our free time together.'

' _If_ Rúmil agrees', she reminds him, but relaxes against his side again.

'Of course. And we will talk about the future before you leave, whenever that is.'

'Yes. For now, let us keep our time here, our happy time, free of any serious matters.'

'But it is not a serious matter. It is a happy matter, surely?'

She sighs, gathering her own patience again in the face of his impatience and stubbornness, while reminding herself that a little frustration and disagreement isn't anything dangerous. 'Yes, of course. But it is also serious, because it is an important decision with many consequences.'

 _I would have to leave my home_ , she reflects, not for the first time, _and my family and my people, to come to be your wife. Though I am coming to think that I will leave it all for you, the decision will bring sorrow for me as well as joy. Perhaps you don't understand that yet._

Before she can explain Carnistir speaks again, sounding chastised. Perhaps he was able to make out some of what she is thinking, though it is still much easier for them to sense each other's feelings than thoughts.

'I will wait until you are ready', he promises, if a little grudgingly. 'Though it is more difficult now than ever.'

'I know, and I agree', she says. 'There is a part of me – and it is no small part – that wishes we could just stay here.' She lifts her head and gives him a rueful little smile.

It takes effort for him to smile back, and she appreciates him all the more for it.

Darling Carnistir. She has doubted many things during their courtship but never had cause to think that he doesn't try his best, do everything he can. She tries to keep the value of that in mind, though it is difficult to comprehend that someone would do their utmost for her who isn't family, for it is all so new.

'We could, you know', he says, a rarely-heard note of playfulness in his voice making it clear that he is jesting, for the most part at least. 'We could stay here in this glade. I would build you a little house of stone and wood, and we could listen to the water and the forest birds all the time.'

'That sounds lovely.' She chuckles, and pats his leg, and adds lightly, 'I would miss my books, though.'

'Ah, you bookworm.' He turns his face to her hair, leaning into her as she leans into him, and they stay quiet for a moment.

Then Tuilindien says, 'Vanimelda?' It is a question again.

'What else', answers Carnistir. 'I have no gift for poetry, I cannot make up a very poetic name to call you by. But _vanimelda_ is what you are to me.'

'My darling Carnistir', she says tenderly. 'I have no beautiful name for your, though you deserve one, and I am not much of a poet either. I will try to think of something, though.'

'Speaking of names', Carnistir says after another moment of quietly exchanging emotions and light touches. 'The meanings of my names are very clear' – he gestures with his hand at his face and hair, quite unnecessarily – 'and not very profound. Why are you called Tuilindien?'

She pulls her knees up, no longer so overheated, and tells the story of her name that means 'spring-singer', or 'swallow'. 'There was a pair of swallows that had a nest outside the window of my mother's bedroom. She listened to them building their nest and singing their twittering song all day when I was born. Soon after I was old enough to have my own room, the birds moved their nest closer to it. My mother took it as a strong enough sign that she began calling me her little swallow.'

She can feel his small smile, though she doesn't see it with her head lain on his shoulder.

'That is very sweet, I suppose. And sweet suits you. But your sisters are named after birds as well, are they not?'

'Yes. I've been told that when Lirulinë was a baby she sang wordless songs and sounded like a lark, so she was named after that bird. By the time it was time to name Cirincë, just a few years ago, my mother decided that she might as well give all her daughters names from birds. Cirincë inherited our father's reddish-blonde hair, so she was named after the small red bird.'

'So your baby sister will be given the name of a bird as well.'

'In time, yes. I think mother will wait a few years before she chooses a name. Or a bird, rather.'

'Will you name your daughters – and why not sons too – after birds?'

Just when she was feeling more composed and less overheated he asks something like that, leading her mind to the future and all it might hold. It is not a bad warmth, though, that overtakes her once again. 'Perhaps', she answers, fighting a silly blush. 'A name cannot be known before one knows the child.'

'I'm fairly certain my father had decided my eldest brother's name before he was even born', Carnistir says dryly.

Tuilindien cannot help laughing but says, 'Father-names are different, aren't they?'

'Which is good, since I really am no poet.'

'You might be underestimating yourself', she says, and lays a gentle hand on his arm that holds her. 'My dear, I think it is time for us to go.'

He lets go of her, with great regret, and stays behind when she walks once more to the waterfall and drinks again of the freezing cold water gathered in the pool.

She lifts her gaze to the high, high mountain and thinks of going home there, to the other side of the peak, to king Ingwë's dwelling-place that receives the light and warmth of the Trees from below and the power and grace of Manwë from above. She misses it both less and more than she'd have thought she would. Less, because she isn't eager to go home; more, because once she does, it might only be her home for a little while longer.

She says a quick prayer and then returns to Carnistir who has folded away the blanket and stands waiting for her. He tucks the saddlebags under one arm and holds the other one out for her as she approaches.

She takes it in her hand that is cold from the water, and they walk to their horses hand in hand. She still feels warm with fondness, though the light is growing more silver and more cool by the minute. The birds that sing at mingling are beginning their songs, and there are crickets chirping somewhere.

Carnistir spends a frustrated minute trying to make Varnerocco stop grazing for long enough that he can put on her bridle. He mutters stifled curses that Tuilindien pretends not to hear while she readies Mirwannë.

They ride back to the city side by side, even though that means that they have to go slower to find wide enough gaps in the trees. It also takes some time for Varnë to stop snorting irritatedly at Mirwannë who is luckily smart and stoic enough to just ignore it.

The journey feels far too short, though Tuilindien and Carnistir have time enough to speak of many things and to exchange many long glances that are far less surreptitious than before.

On the stable yard Carnistir dismounts quickly so that he rather than a groom can be the one to help her dismount. Once she is safely on the ground, he holds on to her waist for a superfluous moment and she doesn't even think of protesting, for the feel of his hands there is an achingly sweet combination of familiar and strange now.

He reaches out a hand to grasp his own horse's reins, and pulling lightly, he calls her closer so that he and Tuilindien are left standing between the horses whose great height protects them from any curious eyes.

'I will wait to ask serious questions', he says quietly. 'But you will see me again soon, won't you?'

'Tomorrow, if you wish', she whispers back.

'Of course I do.' He frowns, though thoughtfully rather than angrily. 'I have a little time in the afternoon. We could go for tea.'

'To the tea-house with the lemon cakes?'

'If you wish.' His lips curve from the scowl to a smile.

'You make me want to be braver', she says suddenly, because she has been thinking about it so much recently.

'You _are_ brave', he quickly argues back, though he was clearly surprised that this is a topic she chooses to bring up in the short time they can reasonably hide between their horses. 'Many people would have given up on me when my father was being horrible. You didn't.'

Tuilindien shakes her head. 'That wasn't bravery so much as… anyway, I mean a slightly different kind of courage. The kind that makes you care less about what other people think and about what is decorous behaviour, and lets you pursue what _you_ want. The kind you have. Perhaps it can also look a little like this…'

Hidden between the tall horses, Tuilindien dares to tilt her face up and brush her lips across his, just once, just lightly.

Then she steps back and looks into his eyes, and in the innumerable dark hues there she sees her whole world, and all that could be if she dared to grasp it.

'Until tomorrow, my darling', she says, almost breathless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of nerdy notes:
> 
> A tiny Catullus 5 ([here in my translation](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/164687165961/catullus-5-a-translation)) quote was included in this chapter by my inner classics nerd. I first wrote just 'a thousand more [kisses]' which then brought to my mind such vivid memories of translating that poem in high school Latin class that I had to include a bit from it.
> 
> About _vanimelda_ , the endearment Carnistir uses about Tuilindien: in The Lord of the Rings, Aragorn calls out in Quenya, _'Arwen vanimelda, namárië!'_ when he reminisces about her in Lothlórien. Vanimelda can be analysed as _vanima + melda 'beautiful and beloved'_ or alternatively as _vanima + elda 'elven-fair'_. The first meaning makes more sense if used in Valinor, as Carnistir does here. Used by him about Tuilindien the word can also reasonably take on the meaning _'beloved Vanya'_ , since _vanima_ and _vanya/Vanya_ come from the same root and might behave the same way when used in a compound word. Carnistir intends to mean _'beautiful and beloved'_ and _'beautiful Vanya'_ at the same time, because a double meaning like that would be pleasing to an elf – though Carnistir isn't as much of a linguistics nerd as his father and his sweetheart, all elves enjoy word-play.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you have a moment, please let me know what you thought of this chapter and which bits you enjoyed.
> 
> In the next chapter: Circumstances force a return to more prim and proper dating, and as could be expected it isn't easy.


	14. Lapses of judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnistir is stressed, and the meeting for tea goes awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a two-month hiatus from fic writing to deal with real life pressures, but I'm back now and here is a long chapter.
> 
> Rowan did [three wonderful portraits of Tuilindien](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/post/166148642818/my-art-for-elesiannes-absolutely-charming), please check them out! I gave descriptions of Tuilë's looks to Rowan but they drew her so much better than I was able to even imagine. (Rowan has also drawn [Netyarë](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/post/161798473623/my-art-for-elesiannes-wonderful-character) and [Tinweriel](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/post/163569827753/my-art-for-elesiannes-wonderful-character)!)
> 
> I think it's best to remind you guys of some tags that have been there since the beginning but are most relevant for this chapter and the next two: the 'anger management issues' and 'angst' tags. But to reassure anyone who might be worried, I have now added a 'happy ending' tag, because that was always going to happen and still is.
> 
> **See end note for a mild warning.**

There is an odd sense of weightlessness that surrounds Carnistir as he makes his way home along the familiar streets. A small part of his mind is by necessity concentrated on keeping Varnë from stomping or champing on anyone, but the rest is still in the glade filled with dappled golden light and the rush of water and the sensation of Tuilindien in his arms, her lips on his, her scent in his nose, their emotions and sensations mixing and being amplified between them.

He had felt so at peace, even while his blood ran hot and he wanted to hold on to her ever tighter.

Some of that peace remains while he tends to Varnë at the stables at home, giving her a thorough brushing for behaving well or at least not embarrassing him thoroughly, going as far as to feed her a few apples as a reward. His bad-tempered horse has mellowed somewhat over the years but Carnistir believes that constant reinforcement of good behaviour should be continued.

(He doesn't like to think of all the times his parents must have used the same method on him.)

When he's going to his room to wash and change, the last of the pleasant golden haze in his mind is dispersed when he sees Curufinwë step out of the room next to his. Carnistir tenses and remembers all the times, when they were both easily irritable adolescents, he demanded his parents that he be given be a bedchamber farther away from Curufinwë's. Fëanáro told him that he should consider his brothers allies rather than squabble with them, which Carnistir later realised was deeply hypocritical of him and anyway, Curvo has always made that difficult.

And still likes to do so, apparently, for he leans against the wall and smirks far too widely at Carnistir. 'I see your afternoon with your Vanya went well', he observes. 'I heard you humming from around the corner.'

'I see you have nothing to do but lurk around the house uselessly', Carnistir snaps back. 'And call Tuilë by her name, if you must speak of her. Even father calls her Ingolmiel now.'

'And grimaces every time he does.' As so often, Carnistir's attempts at sharp words have failed to wipe the smug grin off Curufinwë's face. Curufinwë continues, 'I must say, you are a most peculiar kind of lover, Moryo: you would have no talk of your sweetheart – of Ingolmiel', he corrects hastily when Carnistir looks at him threateningly and steps closer. He keeps going, though. 'I was a child when Makalaurë fell for Tinweriel, but even I grew bored of him talking about her all the time. Then again, you've never been the best with words.'

Carnistir knows he is bright red, knows his hands are clenched into fists at his sides; he doesn't know why exactly Curufinwë is doing this but he must be looking for a reaction, an explosive one.

With effort, he steps back and unclenches his fists. He opens the door to his own room and says to Curvo, 'I told you weeks ago: one day you will understand. Until then, shut your mouth about my personal affairs. You don't sound nearly as smart as you think.' He hates the wavering growl in his voice, but it is better than shouting where his mother and youngest brothers would probably hear it.

Curufinwë's smirk has grown less bright. With cheer that is so clearly false that even Carnistir can see it, he says, 'Don't be unsociable, Moryo.'

Carnistir shuts the door in his face.

*

Dinner is a half-miserable affair that Carnistir would rather have avoided. His mother asks about his day just as she asked about everyone else's, without pointing out the significance of his and Tuilindien's first private excursion outside of Tirion.

He tells his family very briefly, his temper already flaring in anticipation of teasing from Tyelko or Curvo, that the ride had been pleasant and Tuilindien had found the waterfall glade beautiful.

'That's nice to hear', Maitimo smiles. 'The twins have never been there, we should take them someday soon. They should be good enough riders in no time, based on their enthusiasm at least.'

The twins hasten to assure everyone that yes, of course they will. Relieved at the change of topic, Carnistir does his best to return Maitimo's smile. He feels deeply the value of his oldest brother's support, all the more when Maitimo continues to carry to conversation. Somehow he manages to keep to topics far away from courting, the visiting Vanyar and even Fëanáro's work in the forge. The last topic Carnistir would like avoid because he hasn't yet finished the designs for the improvements of said forge even though he has promised to deliver them to his father very soon.

Carnistir eats quickly and speaks little. He is good at both but unfortunately doesn't manage to escape all attention. When he rises from the table as soon as he deems it passably polite (perhaps it is, perhaps it isn't; he's never quite sure) his father speaks his name.

'Morifinwë. Will you have those plans for me tomorrow?' Fëanáro asks. 'Or have you been too busy with other things?'

Carnistir grips the ornately carved back of the chair he just rose from so hard that it hurts. 'I'll have them ready', he says curtly. Already as he leaves the room he is regretting the impulsive promise – there are many hours of planning work left, not to mention redrawing every page to make sure they look neat and well-presented enough for Fëanáro's exacting standards. He didn't stop to consider any of that though; the only thought in his mind was that his father mustn't have any reason to blame Tuilindien for him neglecting his work.

He curses his impulsiveness all the way to his room, and once he gets there he shuts the door with a bang.

Then he sits down at his desk, digs out the messy designs and wonders how he is supposed to finish them in one night. He feels like the string of a bow pulled too tight, overstretched, close to snapping. The serenity and sweetness of the waterfall glade are all gone now, and they feel hard to recapture.

That is for the best, he decides, for then the thoughts of the lovely golden hours cannot distract him. He sets to work, frowning.

*

He isn't certain how long has passed when there is a knock on his door, but he does know he hasn't made nearly as much progress as he wants to. He also doesn't know who is it that is knocking, but he is certain that he doesn't want company.

'Go away', he growls under his breath, keeping quiet in deference to the twins' bedtime that has surely already passed.

'I know you're awake.' Curufinwë's voice is equally quiet. 'I can see the light under your door.'

'Go away anyway.'

'Look, Carnistir, don't be an idiot. Let me in.'

Carnistir tosses his quill to the desk and goes to the door but doesn't open it. 'What do you want, Curufinwë?' Again he can feel his temper rising, and trying to control it places an ever-tightening metal band around his head, an almost-tangible thing.

'You said to father that you're going to present the forge plans to him tomorrow, but I know you don't have them ready.'

Carnistir closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the door. He is tired, and he holds on to that instead of the anger he's also feeling. 'I will have them ready tomorrow.'

'You must be planning to work all night, then –'

'Why did you come to my door, Curvo?' Carnistir snaps. 'To gloat at my mismanagement of my schedule? Or to distract me so that I surely won't have my work done by morning?'

'To help.'

Carnistir is so astonished that he finds himself opening the door. 'Really?' he asks Curufinwë. 'After mocking me and my courting for weeks, you suddenly want to help?'

'If you actually listened to what I say and didn't bristle as soon as I open my mouth, you'd know that I have mocked you much less than you think', Curufinwë snaps back. 'Now, are you going to let me in and let me do the tidying up for you?'

'Shh, it's late.' Carnistir ushers his brother into the room and closes the door behind him quietly. 'You mean you'll copy the final versions?'

'Yes.' Curufinwë crosses his arms on his chest, as if to offset his generosity by the brusque gesture. 'It's not like I can do the actual drawing, since you're the one father asked to do the designing and you're better at buildings anyway.' He scowls like he always does when admitting that someone is better at something than he is. 'But unless you've gotten sloppy recently, I know you'll want to redo the drawings and copy the notations in a neater hand. You and I always do that when we have something to present to father.'

'Yes, we do', Carnistir says, regarding Curufinwë less suspiciously as he is reminded that he and Curvo are close in this one way: they are the only ones of Fëanáro's sons, this far at least, who have chosen to make a career of pursuing the same crafts as their father. Maitimo, Makalaurë and Tyelkormo only enter the forge and workshop more rarely, and only out of a sense of filial duty.

'Fine', Carnistir says after a moment. 'I mean, thank you', he adds stiffly.

Curufinwë doesn't acknowledge the expression of gratitude. Instead he moves another chair to the desk and picks up topmost page of a stack of papers. 'This looks like the first page', he observes. 'Is it finished?'

Carnistir shakes his head to recover from the lingering astonishment at Curufinwë's behaviour. 'Yes, it is.'

'Your penmanship is atrocious', says Curufinwë, bending his head to start copying the page.

Thanks to Curufinwë's assistance, Carnistir manages to finish the forge designs and even get a little sleep, but he is hardly rested and relaxed in the morning when he drops the stack of designs at his father's place at the breakfast table.

When Fëanáro sees it he arches one elegant brow. 'I must admit, I didn't expect you to have them today, and it wasn't completely necessary either.' His countenance softens ever so slightly as he asks, 'Did you rest at all?'

'I rested enough', Carnistir says, his eyes down on his plate in the hope of hiding the pallor of his face. He knows he looks unwell, and it wouldn't matter, except – 'I am happy to go over the plans with you today, father, but I must leave for a few hours in the afternoon.'

'Ah.' Fëanáro sets the papers he's been perusing back on the table. 'I see. Another meeting with lady Ingolmiel. You hardly go a day without seeing her.'

Carnistir stabs at his food. 'We don't want to waste any time we could have together before she has to leave.' This is not a topic he likes to dwell on, for even if Tuilindien manages to stay a little longer than she was originally going to, there is still a separation ahead.

'Of course not, my dear', Nerdanel says, aiming a warning look at her husband. 'I'm sure you will have time enough to discuss your work with your father even if you meet Ingolmiel in the afternoon. After all, we have all been talking about these forge improvements for a long time and it will also take time to build them, so it is surely no great matter if you take two days instead of one to make sure that the designs are what both of you want them to be.'

Fëanáro nods, but his mouth is a thin line of almost-disapproval, and Carnistir's temper is again a thread stretched too thin, or a snake coiled up, ready and threatening to strike – all those things that are appropriate metaphors for a dangerous thing one needs to keep a watchful eye on.

*

His temper is stretched even tighter by the time he leaves his father's study in the early afternoon and hurries back to his room to change for his meeting with Tuilindien. He made good progress on the plans with his father, and Fëanáro thankfully refrained from making any snide comments about Tuilindien, but Carnistir still hasn't forgiven him for his earlier behaviour. Things between them are troubled and tense.

Along the way to his room he notices that his youngest brothers are doing something slightly suspicious in the garden, but he doesn't have time to investigate and decides to just pretend that he didn't see them digging up a flowerbed.

As he rummages through his wardrobe to find something suitable for a walk in a park and subsequent refreshments at a teahouse, he thinks once again of how odd it is to feel excited for something that is in itself so respectable and boring. In addition to excitement, though, he is also frustrated. He would so much prefer to go riding with Tuilindien again, as far away from the city as possible, but they don't have time for that this time.

He is roused from his thoughts by the realisation that he has thrown nearly all of his clothes on the bed and yet finds himself none the wiser as to what he'll wear. He doesn't have very many clothes suitable for these important but not formal meetings with Tuilindien. Unlike Curvo or Makalaurë, he has never paid much attention to having many nice clothes.

He settles for a dark maroon tunic with silver embroidery at the collar and sleeves that is presentable but slightly too tight at the shoulders for a few years now, and charcoal grey breeches. When he steps out of his room, in a hurry by now, he finds the Ambarussar in the corridor. They are leaning against the wall opposite his door but when they see him, they scramble to their feet.

'Where are you going, Moryo?' asks Telvo.

'I told you, he's going to see the girl again', says Pityo and shoves at his twin.

Telvo shoves back. 'You don't know that for sure. Are you going to see her, Carnistir?'

'It's none of your business if I am', says Carnistir, locking his door to make sure that curious little boys don't find their way there.

'See? I told you.' Pityo sticks his tongue out at Telvo.

Carnistir ignores the squabbling boys and walks away, but he can hear the patter of their feet on the marble floor as they follow him.

'Can we come too, Carnistir? We have had the most boring day.'

He just shakes his head without turning. They should know well enough what it means, and that it's not appropriate for them to come along with him.

The twins start listing their grievances. 'Father has been working with you, mother is working on her own, and Tyelko rode off in the morning to stay with Oromë again', Telvo says.

'And we don't know what Curvo is doing but we haven't seen him all day. Russandol is at the palace again, and we don't even have lessons', Pityo adds with a sigh.

The Ambarussar must be bored indeed if they are missing their lessons with their prim tutor. Carnistir pities them a little but not very much. After all, they at least have each other for entertainment and annoyance at all times, which is more than most children do.

'Your girl is much nicer than you are, I'm sure she wouldn't mind us coming.' Telvo, who fancies himself the more silver-tongued of the two, is trying his childish best to persuade his big brother. It would make his Carnistir smile on most days.

They are by the front door by this time, and Carnistir turns to face the boys. 'No, you can't come.'

'But –', tries Pityo, the more tenacious one.

'No, and it's final. Go pester the servants if you need more company than each other. Or don't pester the cook and he might give you biscuits.'

With this sage advice Caranthir steps out the door.

He is deep in thought all the way to the courtyard beneath the Mindon, trying to find some serenity, however little, at the thought of meeting Tuilindien, and in preparation for it. Thus this time it is she who notices him first and comes to him with swift steps rather than the other way round.

'Carnistir.' She greets him with a smile full of light and delight and offers him her hand to kiss. He does, of course, gladly, and then tucks her hand under his arm as they begin walking.

'There is a small park we haven't visited yet', he says. It is even more awkward than he'd thought it would be to have gone back to this sedate strolling along city streets, walking with her on his arm as if she needs the support, and knowing that this is the most physical contact they can hope to have with each other today.

They are far from the only members of nobility taking a walk in the heart of the city. They even pass lady Maquetimië, that irksome gossipmonger who spread the knowledge of their first meeting to everyone who would listen.

The lady greets them, and Tuilindien returns the greeting. Carnistir tightens his hold on her to ground himself in the reality of her being there, trying to keep away from the feelings of irritation and anger that this particular courtier has aroused in him since he was a child, and all the more recently.

Maquetimië tries to start a conversation, but either Tuilindien doesn't have very warm feelings towards her either or she can sense his irritation, for she politely tells Maquetimië that very regretfully, they are in a hurry and cannot stop to chat – but they will surely see again at some court function soon, she adds, because that is how she is.

'Thank you', Carnistir murmurs to her once they've escaped Maquetimië's clutches, dearly hoping that they won't run into her again any time soon.

'I'm not prepared to waste a moment of being with you to idle chatter with anyone else', Tuilindien says with the smallest of blushes, and Carnistir wants to kiss that blush and make it deepen.

Not being able to tenses up the restless thing inside him again.

*

'I liked the trees in that park', Tuilindien says as they take their seats at a table outside the teahouse, also situated underneath some trees. 'They were older than this city, weren't they? Wild things rather than planted here by your industrious people.'

'I suppose so. I don't know for certain, though. You would have to ask my grandfather.'

'Perhaps I will, if I get the chance.' It is hardly an outrageous thing to say, but she still feels shy, curling her fingers around her teacup and holding it close.

'He will like you, you know', Carnistir says, sounding like's only just realising it, and relieved about it. It feels like the tension that has seemed to surround him today dissipates slightly. 'Grandfather Finwë doesn't have… prejudices. He has many friends among the Vanyar.'

She doesn't quite know what to say in reply to that, so she just smiles. There is a lull in their conversation, less comfortable and sweet than yesterday's touch-filled quiet moments, while they sip tea and nibble at cake. Or she nibbles, at least. Carnistir has already polished off his.

She steals glances at him, thinking that he looks very nice in his rather tight brownish-red shirt that compliments his dark looks.

In the quiet between them, in spite of the chatter of other teahouse customers, Tuilindien becomes aware of a quiet rustling sound that appears to come from some distance away. Looking around briefly, she sees nothing unusual. Carnistir appears distracted by the noise, but Tuilindien decides she has had enough of the somewhat awkward silence. She asks if he has set a time for a riding lesson with the twins already, since he said the day before that he would do soon.

'I'm thinking of doing it some day next week', he replies, shifting his concentration from the surrounding noises to her. His hand creeps closer to hers on the table. 'I haven't spoken to them about it yet, though. I should. They seem so restless still, though things with my father have mostly calmed down. I think they need more to occupy their time, really. When I was leaving home to come see you, they declared themselves bored and asked to come along even though –'

They hear the rustling again, this time louder, perhaps closer. Carnistir appears bothered by it, which Tuilindien finds odd – while his emotions are volatile, she has never seen him startled by a small thing such as this.

She remarks that there are probably some birds looking for crumbs or for berries in the bushes, and at that Carnistir's face turns red and he stands up suddenly.

'Wait here, Tuilë.' And then he is gone, his long strides carrying him away from her before she can do more than open her mouth in astonishment.

She watches as he walks past several tables to the bushes in the direction where the rustling sound came from and reaches into the foliage. There is a sudden cry of pain, and another, and then two red-headed little boys emerge and are grabbed none too gently by their ears by their big brother.

Tuilindien stands up and gathers her skirts and hurries to where Carnistir is now fuming at his brothers. If he is trying to do it quietly, he is failing utterly.

'Carnistir.' She touches his arm and he lets go of his brothers and turns to her. He is clearly attempting to rein in his fury, but she can still feel him shaking with it. So much anger, directed at children.

She speaks carefully. 'I see your little brothers also have a craving for delicacies on this day. Good afternoon, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë.' She greets them, nodding as calmly as she can, as if it is completely normal to discover little boys lurking in the bushes while their brother has tea with a woman he's courting.

The twins bow clumsily back to her, attempting to behave now that they have been reprimanded, though their faces and ears are red and they have tears in their eyes. In spite of their misbehaviour Tuilindien's heart goes out to them: they are so young and look so contrite and scared at being found out and at their brother's anger.

'Carnistir, I think your little brothers should join us.' She looks at him meaningfully. 'Since they are here already.'

He looks at her like she is crazy. 'Come on, Tuilë, they don't deserve it', he grinds out, and goes to grab her by the arm as if to take her aside to speak with her privately. But he seizes her too roughly and she hears herself make a little surprised noise of pain when his strong fingers dig into her arm and twist as he tries to make her turn aside.

At her pained sound Carnistir lets go of her at once. 'I'm sorry', he says quickly, horror bleeding into his voice and into their connection that neither is managing to control. 'Did I hurt you?'

'It is all right', she says reflexively and makes a point of not touching her arm where his fingers gripped her, though it smarts. She tries not to tremble.

'I'm so sorry', he says again, looking dazed.

A part of her wants to comfort him but she cannot quite bring herself to. 'Carnistir, I think we should go back to our table. With your brothers.'

'They were spying on us. They followed me even though I had forbidden them to come. Our parents must be afraid of where they've disappeared to, if they have found out that they're gone.'

In spite of his words his fury is mere embers now, and she knows she can talk him into doing as she wishes.

Working hard to keep her voice steady, she says, 'It was wrong of them, I agree, and you can chastise them more for it later when you go home. But now I think we should go back to our table. No need for a scene here, Carnistir.'

She speaks softly but Carnistir seems to realise that he is being reprimanded as much as the twins. 'I don't care about people staring. Let them stare, I'm already notorious', he says, but the words ring hollow.

His anger that had burnt red-hot seems to have disappeared in a cloud of shame and regret, less alarming than the rage but just as stifling in Tuilindien's mind. She tries to close their connection and concentrate on the children while appearing normal to any curious onlookers. She doesn't like wearing masks but she can do it when required.

'Carnistir', she says again.

He shakes his head, frowning – Tuilindien feels him distancing himself from her, like she tried to do as well – and then says quietly, dejectedly, 'Yes, let's go. Come on, Ambarussar.'

Tuilindien takes each little twin by the hand as they walk back to the table where their abandoned cakes have attracted the attention of a few bees. She gently encourages them to move elsewhere, then sits down and encourages the twins to do the same.

She looks up at Carnistir who is still standing uncomfortably by the table. The twins have seated themselves on either side of her.

Tuilindien asks, 'Carnistir, would you go get some cakes for your brothers? And another pot of tea as well.'

He flinches a little at her formal tone as if it is an insult, but doesn't protest. 'I'll also pay someone to take word to mother that they are safe', he says and goes into the teahouse.

Tuilindien lets out a little sight as she stirs her now-cold tea, tries to gather herself and thinks of how to use this short time she has gained alone with Carnistir's little brothers. In addition to it being the right thing to do, it is easier to think of them than of the budding panic she feels at how things with Carnistir have suddenly taken such a terrible turn.

'Do you two often follow your brothers?' she chooses to ask first. They have done it twice now to her and Carnistir.

Two red heads are shaken. 'They don't like it, and mother and father don't like either', says the twin on her left that she suspects might be the elder, Pityafinwë.

'Then why did you follow Carnistir today even though he told you not to?'

Both of the twins stare down so she cannot see their faces from where she is sitting between them.

'Look at me', she says gently but firmly, the same way she often speaks to the children she gives writing lessons to. At once two small faces look up at her, pale under the freckles but thankfully no longer tearful.

'Do you not like him seeing me?' She glances at either little boy in turn.

The twins look at each other and don't speak a word, but Tuilindien gets the definite impression that there is a conversation taking place.

'He doesn't spend as much time with us since he started seeing you', says the twin on the left after a moment.

'He used to take us with him to many places, but he doesn't do that so much anymore. He never lets us come along when he sees you. And he is busy all the time, and grumpy most of the time.'

'And he keeps his door locked now', adds the other. 'Tyelko and Curvo almost never let us into their rooms. Russandol does but he's away at the palace or somewhere a lot. We liked spending time in Moryo's room, and he helped us with our homework often.'

'He also often shouted at us and sometimes threw us out', adds the first twin as if in the name of honesty, 'but that's all right. He shouts at everybody, it's not dangerous.'

This is said in the name of family loyalty and innocent love both, Tuilindien thinks, or hopes at least.

'We just wondered what he does with you that is so important and so secret that he won't tell us', confesses the twin on the left after a moment. He seems to be the spokesman of the two. 'So we came to see, and also because we were so bored. And you were just talking and drinking tea.'

'Not even anything exciting', says the other twin and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. Automatically, Tuilindien hands him her napkin, and then Carnistir's napkin to the other boy.

As they blow their noses Tuilindien thinks of Carnistir's brothers and remembers that the only married one is Canafinwë, the second oldest of the seven; the twins must have been very young when he was courting his wife. She wonders if they realise why Carnistir keeps seeing her.

Carefully, she says, 'Sometimes when a young man and woman like each other, they want to spend time together even if they do not do anything exciting. And they like to be alone together.'

The twins are staring at their feet again so she doesn't know how much they understand of what she says. After a moment, the one on the left says, 'We are sorry we ruined your tea meeting.'

'I forgive you', replies Tuilindien. 'I am sure you have learned that it was the wrong thing to do to follow your brother without permission. But you will have to apologise to him too, even if it is scary because he gets so angry.'

'We will', say the twins in unison.

Tuilindien is afraid to ask, but she has to know, for she has been wondering ever since she saw Carnistir drag his brothers out of the bush and grab them so roughly. And then he touched her so roughly too, so differently from all other times... 'Does he – does Carnistir ever hit you when he is angry? Or hurt you in some other way?'

Two pairs of horrified blue-grey eyes stare up at her. 'He would never hit us! He sometimes shouts and curses and breaks things –'

'– by throwing them. And he slams doors, he once broke the door of the garden pavilion', adds the other twin helpfully.

'But he doesn't hit us or hurt us. Well, except when he drags us somewhere, like he dragged us out of that bush. But he didn't do it to hurt us, just to get us out of there.'

Tuilindien is relieved beyond words. She is still very much unnerved by his temper and thinks that he should not treat his little brothers as he does, but her graver concern at least seems unnecessary. She takes a few deep breaths to compose herself.

'Lady Tuilindien.' Small hands reach out to touch hers and two little faces look at her beseechingly. 'Please don't be angry with Moryo because of us. We didn't mean to cause him trouble, or you.'

'We do like you, lady Tuilindien', the other twin says. 'We think that it makes Moryo happy to spend time with you. Even if he is grumpy with us.'

Tuilindien thinks that these two have a very good heart, though if they are naughty sometimes. And it seems that young as they are, they might have some of their mother's famous insight and wisdom.

She squeezes their hands and says, 'There is no need to call me "lady", just call me Tuilindien or Tuilë.' She smiles at them gently, happy that the three of them got this far before Carnistir returns.

'You can call us Ambarussar.' The twins are all light and smiles now. 'Or you can call me Telvo and him', the boy on the left points at his twin, 'Pityo. Our father doesn't like it when we are called by the same name.'

Just as Carnistir returns balancing a treat-filled tray on each arm, Tuilindien tells the twins that she will call them by different names when it is necessary to refer to only one of them, but otherwise she is happy to use the name they have chosen to share. She believes in the right to choose one's own name.

Carnistir distributes cakes and pours tea while Tuilindien keeps chatting with the Ambarussar until the last traces of paleness and upset have faded from their faces.

He notices that she is now in turn pale, and the light conversation she makes with the twins doesn't hide her uneasiness though she tries her best to pretend that all is well.

It is very clear that she has forgiven the twins' intrusion and won their eternal devotion, and he can only hope that she will forgive him too although his transgression is greater.

Though the tense thing inside himself disappeared after it made him snap, he feels far from light; he is more ashamed than he has ever been in his life.

And he can feel, in the connection between them that is never completely shut off these days even when they do their best to close it off, that though she keeps up a conversation with the twins Tuilindien is unhappy and scared. That makes him utterly miserable as well, and afraid of what consequences his actions will have.

He doesn't know what he could say here that would make things better, so he drinks his tea and stays silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Warning:_** there is some very mild violence in this chapter courtesy of those anger management issues of Carnistir's. It's not very intentional but it does happen.
> 
> Several people have noted in comments to various chapters that Carnistir has kept his temper impressively in check. Well, now the pressure got to be too much. Tuilindien has a strong reaction to it, because this pre-darkening Valinor is a very peaceful place with no violence to speak of, thus even small acts of physical aggression have significance.
> 
> I deleted a scene from this chapter because it wasn't very relevant to Tuilindien and Carnistir's story; it's Curufinwë and Carnistir talking about their work and their father, and it can be read on my Tumblr [here](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/167316104106/a-caranthircurufin-conversation).


	15. Contrition and consideration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnistir reflects on himself, Tuilindien feels homesick, and there is another difficult conversation including apologies, this one heavier than the ones before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough one to write, and I'm not all that happy with it even after a lot of rewriting. It has certainly taken me far too long though (… eight months. I'm so grateful to all who are still following this story) so I'm posting it now.
> 
> If you think that Tuilindien or Carnistir is overreacting, remember that this is pre-darkening Valinor: there is pretty much no violence, and Tuilindien has lived all her life among the Vanyar who are even less prone to lashing out than the Noldor of the 'blissful noontine of Valinor'.
> 
> RowanBaines/ACommonAnomaly drew [Carnistir, Tuilindien and Tuilindien's small white cat](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/post/176421394333/happy-birthday-a-day-late-elesianne-carnistir). It's not related to this chapter but it's cute and lovely so you should go look at it anyway :) If the link works. Tumblr is being weird at the time I'm posting this.

'You should take them home', Tuilindien says when the cakes and tea have been consumed, mostly by the twins who are now almost cheerful enough as they'd be if they had been invited.

Carnistir has only sunk deeper down in misery.

'I'll take them home', he says. It is the right thing to do. 'But Tuilë – I need to talk to you in private.' All he can feel from her is a strange sort of exhaustion. It is disconcerting.

'Tomorrow', she says. 'No, the day after. I have meetings and a party to attend tomorrow.'

'Tonight.' He cannot wait. Tuilindien's exhaustion is only growing, and inside Carnistir himself there is a black mass is even worse than the earlier tension whose breaking brought them to this point. 'Late tonight after any other things you might have to do, if no other time is good for you.'

Carnistir notices that the twins are quiet now, watching him and Tuilindien carefully. She also stays silent for a moment.

'Very well', she says finally. 'Come to the palace two hours after Mingling. I should be free then, but I don't want to wander far so late. Do you know of a suitable meeting place in the palace or nearby?'

He must know, surely, after spending much of his childhood playing there, but he can only think of one place. 'The gardens.'

'Where we met.' Tuilindien's graceful nod is very solemn. 'I will see you there tonight.' She turns to the Ambarussar, and to them she grants the gentle smile she hasn't shown Carnistir since he lost his temper. 'Pityo, Telvo, thank you for talking with me. Next time, though, you must have permission to come. It is not right to cause a scare to your parents and… upset to your brother. Remember to apologise them all.'

It turns out that the twins have the good sense to at least look chastised as they promise to her that they will.

'Until tonight, Carnistir', says Tuilindien and leaves, returning to her lodgings alone, unescorted by Carnistir for the first time since they started seeing each other.

As Carnistir leads his little brothers home, they try to speak to him – to explain or apologise, he doesn't care. He tells them that there is nothing to talk about. 'You were wrong to follow me and I was wrong to drag you out of the bushes so roughly and to grab Tuilindien's arm. We all know we shouldn't have done those things. That is it.'

Pityo and Telvo try to say something more, but Carnistir cannot really listen. Getting them all home is all he can concentrate on. Most of his mind is screaming at itself, and it is so loud he cannot hear anything else.

Their parents are in the hall waiting for them, worry evident on both their faces, and rise to their feet as soon as Carnistir shepherds the twins through the door.

'I am sorry', he says to his parents, and then realises that he shouldn't have, perhaps, since he wasn't responsible for the twins following him. He had told them to stay home.

Then he flees, going out the door again, because he doesn't want to explain to his parents all that happened.

As soon as he's outside he realises he doesn't know where to go. This is his home. He could go to Makalaurë's house, but although Makalaurë wouldn't push him to tell what has upset him – he never does, and for that he is one of Carnistir's favourite people – he would still look worried, and Carnistir doesn't think he can handle even that.

He needs to go somewhere, though, before his parents or the twins come to look for him. He heads for the stables, grabs Varnë's brushes and tack from the tack room and goes to her stall.

He brushes her mahogany coat until it shines. Varnë is in an unusually relaxed mood, perhaps still happy with him because of yesterday's long ride and afternoon in the forest glade, and barely fidgets while he tends to her.

After brushing her he cleans her hooves and even carefully – and cautiously, because she is a kicker – detangles her tail and it is time to put on her bridle and saddle, he finds that he doesn't want to do that. He knows that the way he is feeling, the terrible twisting weight inside him, is all his own fault and he doesn't deserve to run away from it by galloping into the Calacirya with Varnë.

There are no other people in the stable. He collapses in the corner of Varnë's stall and leans against the wall.

He knows he has a terrible temper. He always has had it, and he has always known. His parents, especially his patient, understanding mother, have worked with him to help him learn control it, and he truly has become better at it. As a child he screamed at something or someone practically every day, and as an adolescent he got into actual physical fights with Tyelko so often that Carnistir suspects it was part of the reason why their parents sent Tyelko to stay with Oromë.

Tyelko grew into adulthood and better control there, in Oromë's woods and house, and as the years went by Carnistir… also learnt. But clearly not enough, because he still does things he doesn't want to do, not really, not any other part of him but that dangerous thing that lives too close to the surface in him and sometimes tenses up so tightly that it explodes and makes him physically aggressive.

No. Not a _thing_. He mustn't think that it is a thing inside him. It is _him_ , not anything else; it is a part of his _fëa_ that gets so angry, and it is his _hröa_ that grabs and throws and breaks. It may be a part of him that he often despises and wishes didn't exist, but it is an indelible part of him nonetheless. He must take responsibility for his actions.

When he was a child his parents told him that taking responsibility means apologising, promising not to do it again, and then doing everything he can to keep that promise.

He supposes that still applies, also in this case, and that is why he insisted on seeing Tuilindien soon. He wants to hear from her what he can do to make things right with her.

And before then he needs to think of what to say to her, he realises. He needs to decide on specific words, or he might not get any out, or he might say something to make things even worse. He is not very good at apologising, though he has done rather a lot of it in his life because of his temper.

He hasn't lost control this badly for a while, though. Now that he takes the time to think about it, he realises it must be because of all the things that have been going on in the last couple of weeks. While courting Tuilindien has brought him much joy and he doesn't regret it at all, it has brought along with it also stress and hurry, most of it either directly or indirectly caused by his father.

Carnistir wanted to meet Tuilindien every day, and to prove to Fëanáro that he could do it and still do all of his work. And he could – yes, Curvo helped him last night, but he only needed the help because he decided to finish that project early. Everything else he has completed on time, and any time left over from work he has spent with Tuilindien.

So he did both things he wanted, but he couldn't do them without losing control of his temper. He didn't break Tuilindien or even her arm, but he did hurt her. There might well be bruises on her arm right now – Valar, it makes him nauseous to think of it – and he hurt her in other ways as well.

Thus his success is turned into failure and he into this damned coward who hides in his horse's stall rather than face his family.

'Damn it all, Varnë', he says out loud. The mare comes to him and nuzzles his hand, looking for treats. 'Nothing for you this time, girl', he says to her and moves his hand to scratch her ears so that she won't nip at it in disappointment.

She blows warm air onto his face as he pets her, and he takes comfort in their quiet moment together. For a long time after he got Varnë he never even dared to sit down when she was nearby because it made him too vulnerable to her aggressive behaviour. They have made a lot of progress since then.

Taming Varnë, not that she ever became very docile, was part of his efforts to learn self-control during his growing years. He eventually won her over by patience and perseverance, by not giving into his desire to rail at her and to answer to aggression with aggression. It was important to him that they got along, so he worked hard.

Tuilindien is even more important. He hasn't known her for long but he is absolutely certain that he wants her to stay in his life, to grow ever closer with her until they give the promise that makes them inseparable. The thought of her going home and never coming back is so terrible that Carnistir refuses to think about it for more than a second.

Even that second makes breathing hard. He buries his head in his hands and scrunches his eyes shut, concentrating on nothing but making his lungs work and his heart beat at a bearable pace.

There was nothing really wrong with his life before he met Tuilindien. He had his work and his family and friends, and a position in society that in the end is probably more beneficial than it is bothersome.  But he knows that if he loses her now, because of his own intemperance, his days will seem so bleak. He hadn't known to desire it but having someone who is something special to him and he is equally special to is coming to be very precious to him.

It sounds terribly sentimental, but he has realised that he wants to be someone's most important person – though that isn't quite right. He doesn't want to be just someone's most beloved, he wants to be Tuilindien's.

To have a chance with her, he will try harder and do whatever it takes to better manage his temper. He had thought that he'd come far enough with it, but clearly he hasn't if he isn't able to keep himself from hurting the one he wants to cherish and make happy, and also from bringing his little twin brothers to tears with his anger. That isn't acceptable either.

Mind made up and resolve steeled, he gets up and brushes horsehair and bits of straw off the fine breeches he so carefully chose just a few hours earlier. He feeds a few carrots to Varnë, gives her a scratch goodbye and goes in to the house, not exactly intending to seek out his parents or youngest brothers but not sneaking around either.

*

Tuilindien slips into the palace gardens after dinner. Carnistir probably won't be there yet but she wants somewhere where she can be alone. Fortunately she didn't have to socialise much after her meeting-gone-awry with Carnistir. She spent the afternoon at the library working on her own, getting little work done, and then an hour before dinner cuddled up in bed together with Cirincë.

Cirincë, the sweet girl that she is, had been worried about Tuilindien even though she'd tried to assure her that she was alright.

'No, you are not', Cirincë had said, perceptive as ever, her bright eyes intent on her sister. 'But I won't ask you about it if you don't want.' Cirincë says this with a slightly self-congratulatory tone at her own maturity.

If she wasn't so young Tuilindien would have told her all about it, because Cirincë is a wonderful listener. But she is only a child, no matter how precocious, and so Tuilindien had lain down on her bed and said that she would rather not talk about it.

She hadn't turned away from Cirincë though, and Cirincë climbed on to the bed with her and curled up close like an affectionate cat – like Tuilindien's little white cat at home that she misses very much.

It seemed Cirincë is thinking along the same lines, for after a while, she whispered, 'I miss home' in a small voice.

Tuilindien drew her into her arms and stroked her hair, noting absent-mindedly that it would need to be rebraided before dinner. 'We'll go home soon', she told her little sister, and herself.

She is grateful that there are few people in the garden now, and that she finds the secluded corner unoccupied.

She sits down on the long bench surrounded by tall bushes. Waiting is difficult this time, and she clenches her hands in the skirt and stares at the silvery sky.

She decides to spend the time before Carnistir arrives strengthening the wall she imagines at the borders of her mind whenever she tries to quieten the connection between Carnistir and herself. There is a part of her that grieves at doing her best to shut him out, but she tells herself that the coming conversation needs to be handled with the head, not the heart.

*

When Carnistir arrives he sees Tuilindien already there, sitting in almost exactly the same spot as the night they first met. She is staring down at the ground and the long cascade of her hair hides her face. He can't feel anything from her either, the connection between them completely quiet for once.

'Tuilë', he greets. Then, because he is enough of a son of Fëanáro that he realises at least some nuances between words and knows which belongs where, he corrects himself. 'Tuilindien.'

'Carnistir.' She rises to her feet but doesn't extend her hand to kiss. Her hair is completely unbound, a golden river, and it makes something in him clench painfully.

She doesn't immediately say anything else, so Carnistir says what he came here to say.

'I am sorry.' And then, once that most important thing is said, 'I did not mean to hurt or scare you, or my brothers, but I know I did. I am sorry.'

Tuilindien sits back down, regarding him with a serious look. 'Thank you for apologising. Are Pityo and Telvo still alright? They seemed fairly cheerful when you went home.'

'They are well', says Carnistir. 'They… our parents did chastise them and our father set them some writing exercises to do, but their high spirits didn't seem to suffer from even that. I went… out for a while but when I went home again I let them in to my room to do their task there. They were still there when I left to come here.'

'I am glad', says Tuilindien. 'They are so fond of you that I would be sorry if any estrangement had grown between you because of today's events.' She busies her fingers with fiddling with her sleeves as she talks, looking down. 'I don't know if they mentioned it to you, but I talked with them while you went inside the teahouse. I asked them if you… how you usually are with them when you lose your temper. I wanted to hear from them that you don't hurt them, no matter how angry you are.'

She is talking fast, forcing the words out in quick succession, emotion making her speech grow more Vanyarin by the second. 'They said you have never hurt them on purpose, and never done more than today when you dragged them out of their hiding place. I was very relieved. I am very aware that people and customs are different and I have been – I am trying to understand you, but there are things I couldn't accept. Hurting children is one of them.'

'I couldn't accept it either', he says.

Tuilindien nods.

Carnistir continues, every word heavy but necessary. 'I can't accept what I did to them today. It was already far too much. Also what I did to you – I should have just asked you to come with me instead of touching you roughly. But I am not good with words at the best of times and when I lose my temper I tend to lose control of words too and resort to physical action.'

'You are speaking very clearly now.'

'I thought about what to say beforehand. All the hours between when we last saw and now.'

'I thought about it too', she says. She is still playing with her long sleeves, pulling them over her fingers and then letting go again.

He thinks it must be a nervous habit, but it is a new one, different from her usual playing with her skirts or hair. He realises, and his heart goes cold when he does, that it seems new to him because she has not worn long sleeves before. She has seemed like the kind of person who doesn't get cold easily. It is not very cold now, though the evening has turned to pure silver.

'You're wearing thick, long sleeves', he observes out loud, letting the words hang in the air between them.

Tuilindien says nothing, and seems far away from him, nothing between them but air now that their connection is silent.

'Pull your sleeves up', he tells her.

'No.' She curls up her fingers again.

Carnistir's heart is an unbearable weight in his chest. 'I need to see your forearms, I need to see if I left marks –'

'No', she says again. 'It doesn't matter.'

Now he _knows_ there are bruises, and he needs to see them. 'Of course it matters.'

'No, it doesn't. You know you hurt me and you have apologised for it. What does it matter if you see my arm? You would still be sorry if there weren't bruises, wouldn't you?'

'Of course I would! I have never regretted anything so much in my life. But Tuilindien –' he takes a quick step closer to her and reaches out towards her. She flinches, just a little, but it is enough to make him take two steps back.

'Please', he says again. 'It is important to me.'

'But _why_? Tell me, why?' she asks, clearly anguished but still trying to understand him like she always is.

'So that I have even more reason to never do something like it again.'

After a moment, Tuilindien pulls up one of her sleeves, holds it up and extends her arm. She doesn't look at it, or him, gazing aside instead. There are wilting white flowers on the bushes around them, and on her forearm there is a series of already fading but still clearly visible small bruises, his fingerprints. This isn't the way he would ever have wanted to leave his mark on her.

And this is where he finds himself unable to speak, though he isn't angry at anything but himself, and it is a cold kind of anger for once. He stares at those bruises and stores them in his mind together with the little sound of pain she made when he grabbed her and the look of fear in her eyes afterwards, and swears to himself that he will never cause any of them again.

He realises that he hasn't said this out loud, and that he should. 'I will never touch you without your permission again', he says. The words come out scratchy. 'I promise, Tuilë. Never without your permission, and never with anything but gentleness. I will work harder with my temper and I will keep it in check.'

'I –' Tuilindien lets her sleeve drop down to cover her arm again. 'Thank you.'

Why is she _thanking him_? She is ridiculously, inexplicably polite, he thinks. Then he realises, and is slightly astonished at himself for managing to realise it, that she has been even more polite to him after the incident than before. Perhaps it is a way to protect herself, as instinctive as his habitual brusqueness.

He doesn't know what else to say, what he could say.

So they are quiet for a moment. The air smells of the dying flowers around them, the same flowers that were in the height of their bloom when they met here for the first time. It feels a like mockery to Carnistir who finds it difficult to just wait for Tuilindien to speak while she again uses her hair to conceal her face and a new-found control of their connection to conceal her feelings from him.

Eventually, because despite his many flaws and earlier hiding in the stable he isn't really a coward, he asks, 'Will you see me again, Tuilindien?'

She considers her answer for a moment. He counts his heartbeats while she does in order to keep himself from demanding for her to speak.

'I was to go home soon', she says in a measured tone. 'And I think that it is for the best to keep to that original plan now. I will give my apologies to Rúmil and tell him I cannot stay to assist him after all. I will go home and think about you and us.'

'You don't have to leave to think.' He _has_ to try.

'I do, Carnistir, I do.' She lifts her hair away from her face finally, to flow down her back, and gives him a tiny smile that there is something wrong with. 'I need distance and time. I ask that you grant them to me and don't try to change my mind.'

His mouth is dry, and his face feels heated. He sits down on the bench and drops his gaze to his hands, to the smudges of ink still on his fingers from last night's hurried planning and writing. He must stare at them too intently, for his eyes almost burn.

'Carnistir.' Her tone is too kind, and too tired. 'I am not leaving because I no longer care for you. If I didn't, I could stay here and do the work with Rúmil. It would be easy to stay. It isn't easy to leave.'

He isn't certain what to make of that. 'Is there anything I can do?' he asks.

'I already asked for time and distance', she says. 'Aside from that – I suppose there is one question I've been wondering about.'

'Ask me.'

After a moment of gathering her thoughts, Tuilindien asks, 'Why did you get so angry today? I have been wondering, because though I have been told that you lose your temper at the smallest provocation, you have kept calm in my company in situations more infuriating than what happened today at the teahouse.'

'Yes', he says miserably, because he has realised the same thing.

'So I cannot help wondering what made you so angry today.'

He breathes in the cloying scent of dying flowers and thinks. Beside him Tuilindien plays still with her sleeves and skirts, her hands like restless little birds incapable of staying still. They wrinkle the fabric then smooth it out, regretting the wrinkles.

'It wasn't just about the twins at the teahouse', he says at length. 'It did all happen suddenly, but it had been building up for a while. Since I came home from our ride yesterday.' He pushes his hands into his hair, no doubt messing it up further. 'Or perhaps since I first met you. I have been wondering what to do and my brothers – _some_ of my brothers – have been making fun of me, and my father has disapproved. Less vocally now', he hastens to add, 'but still. He is not happy that I am seeing you so much. And I have been working more than usual on top of seeing you.'

'And resting less, perhaps?' She seems to search his face.

'Yes', he admits with a sigh. 'And I am a damned fool for not keeping it in mind, but I always find myself especially bad-tempered when I don't sleep enough.'

Tuilindien contemplates this in silence for a moment.

*

Carnistir's answer is close to the things Tuilindien had thought might be involved when she'd wondered about him, curled up in bed with Cirincë, missing home.

She almost opens her mouth to begin to summarise what he said and to add her own thoughts about it, but remembers all the times that Lirulinë has told her not to take care of other people's feelings so much. She would like to keep untangling this mess of emotions in Carnistir, and in herself, and between them, but she is tired and hurt and so it takes less effort than it usually would to take her older sister's advice. Carnistir's emotions are his own business, and Tuilindien will need the time and distance she asked for to sort out the rest.

'Thank you for the reply', she says. 'I will think on it, among other things, when I get home. Thank you for not making it difficult for me to leave.'

It is still difficult to take a step away from him instead of reaching out to smooth his black locks that are a worse mess than she has seen before.

'It is late', she says, the trite words heavy on her tongue. 'I should retire. Cirincë will be waiting up for me.' She cannot keep herself from adding, 'You need the rest too.'

Carnistir raises his head. 'It isn't as easy as just going home and falling to bed', he says.

'Of course it isn't', she tells him. 'The right thing to do now isn't easy. I told you.'

He just looks at her, and truly, it would be easier to embrace him and forgive, to give in to her too-soft heart.

'Would you stand up?' she asks instead. 'You are sitting on half of my cloak.'

He stands up quickly and picks up the dove-grey cloak, looking slightly confused like he hadn't really even noticed it. She takes it from him. It is only thin silk, more for looks than warmth, but the feeling of familiar delicate softness is comforting.

'Goodnight, Carnistir.'

'Goodbye, Tuilindien.'

His voice holds all the emotions she has ever heard in it, but she turns her back on him and walks away. She wraps herself up in her thin grey cloak and reminds herself of the worth of self-respect, and the wisdom of giving serious matters due consideration, but they do not keep her warm even in the summer night, nor do they make it easy to not look back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Carnistir seeks advice and lodging at Makalaurë's house, and Tuilindien goes home and walks on the slopes of the Taniquetil. Or possibly in the next two chapters. I'm not certain of where the chapter division will be yet.
> 
> Thank you again if you're still here / also if you're a new reader! <3 I know this story has progressed very slowly, but it is still a beloved project and I will keep on working on it.


	16. Breaking out and settling down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanáro chooses a bad moment to talk to Carnistir, but Makalaurë offers his brother refuge and words of wisdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter so far, but it needed to be posted on its own. This is also all from Carnistir's POV, while the next chapter will be from Tuilë's.
> 
> Fëanáro doesn't come across as a very nice person in this chapter. As always, it's not because I 'hate' him. It is because of the circumstances and because he is seen here through the eyes of Carnistir, who has good reason not to view him favourably at this time.

Carnistir doesn't go home after his meeting with Tuilindien.

He sits in the palace garden, dwelling on his guilt and his anger towards himself until he no longer feels the uncomfortable bench he is sitting on. Instead he feels soft grass beneath bare feet, and there is a sound of water close by, and in the air there are many whispers, some soothing, some frightening. He slips further into the restless dream, deep enough that he is badly startled by a nearby bird beginning its paean to the arriving morning.

When Carnistir comes fully back to himself, he finds his body stiff from long stillness on the bench and his boots slightly dampened by dew. He glares at them, stands up, stretches and starts the walk home.

*

The first person he runs into once he arrives home is the last person he would have chosen to meet – his father. He tries to stride past him but Fëanáro calls to him, insistent and a little angry.

Carnistir yells 'Not now' and keeps walking. This all feels familiar.

Fëanáro comes after him and says, 'Yes, now. You will talk to me when I request it, Morifinwë.'

Carnistir dislikes being called by his father-name at the best of times and now resents it. He knows his father uses it as a show of authority, and he hates that, and in this moment hates his father and his cool voice and the hard look in the blue-grey eyes. Fëanáro can be warm, caring even, but never when his sons show disobedience. Carnistir is loyal to his father but not in a mood to be obedient. This isn't the first time he has felt that way and because of it he has quarrelled with his father more than any of his brothers, with the possible exception of Tyelkormo who is as quick to yell as he is to laugh.

Carnistir does not stop walking and does not speak to his father until he is at the door of his room and finds Fëanáro still behind him, just as stubborn as his son.

'Father, I would speak with you later', Carnistir says, trying to control his rage. He would not try even this if he hadn't had reason to regret his anger so deeply lately – if not for Tuilindien.

'That will not do. You did not come home last night, nor did you send word. I need to know what happened.'

'I do not want to talk about it. And I am of age anyway.'

'It is that Vanya who put you in this mood, isn't it?' Fëanáro's gaze is cold and challenging. 'I told you that she would make you unhappy.'

Carnistir unclenches a hand to open the door of his room, inviting his father in with a curt gesture, letting hot fury gather and coil around himself, feeling the heat of it on his face and in his chest. It keeps him warm even when what Fëanáro has to say threatens to freeze him.

What a relief it is to get to explode at his father, and to feel justified doing it.

*

An hour later Carnistir knocks – or rather, bangs violently – on the door of Makalaurë and Tinweriel's home. A young maidservant appears soon, peering nervously round the half-open door. Carnistir had rather unreasonably expected that his brother would come to the door himself, and for a second he just blinks at the little maid.

'Is your master home?' he manages to ask.

'Yes, my lord, he is having breakfast with my lady.' The maid steps aside, clearly wary of her master's famously ill-tempered brother who had moments ago sounded like he was trying to break down the door.

Carnistir pushes past her towards the dining room and a fleeting thought goes through his mind that perhaps he shouldn't disturb Makalaurë's morning meal with his wife, but he is still so angry that the anger quickly drives away all other thoughts.

He needs to make sure that he does not have to go back to his father's house, so as soon as he barges into his brother's dining room he asks, 'Can I stay with you for a while?'

Makalaurë and Tinweriel stare at Carnistir (he knows he must be a sight – breathing heavy, face flushed, frowning ferociously) and then they look at each other.

Tinweriel recovers first. 'Of course, brother', she says, and Carnistir has never before been as glad that Makalaurë married a woman who honours all family ties. She stands, elegantly picks up her plate of dessert cake and her wine glass, and bends down to receive a confused little kiss from her husband. 'I will leave you two to talk in peace', she says and leaves the room.

Makalaurë looks after his departing wife for a moment, then at Carnistir. 'Sit down, Moryo. What is wrong?'

Carnistir takes a seat, his jerking movements scraping the chair against the floor. Makalaurë winces, then fills his own wine glass to the brim and pushes it to Carnistir.

'Wine at breakfast, Cáno?'

'No complaining, or I'll take it away from you.'

Carnistir takes a big gulp of the wine; he isn't complaining about it. 'I had a fight with father.'

'The kind where things are thrown and broken and you shout so loud that the neighbours get a sudden urge to visit their friends?' Makalaurë's voice is mild. This is nothing new, and he must believe that it will pass eventually.

'Yes. And also the kind where I tell him I'm not coming home again and mean it. I truly mean it this time, Cáno. That's why I came here. I hope I can stay until I can make other arrangements.'

Many times since he was a little boy Carnistir has during his furious rows with their father declared that he was going away and never coming home again, but he had always returned after sulking somewhere for a few hours, or a few days when he was older. But the way he says it now must make Makalaurë believe that he really means it, for he replies, 'You're welcome to stay, as Tinweriel already said'.

 Makalaurë hesitates a moment before continuing. 'Would you like to tell me what you disagreed about?'

'Father was gloating, saying that he knew that Tuilindien would make me unhappy.'

Makalaurë's elegant brows rise. 'Has she?'

'Have you not left home for two days?' Carnistir asks, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ornate ceiling. He is uncertain whether he is more relieved that Makalaurë hasn't heard gossip of the public scene he caused, or uncomfortable that he has to tell him all about it himself. 'I thought that the whole city must have heard about what I did by now.'

'As a matter of fact, I haven't left home for three days. Tinweriel and I have been composing. We finally finished the troublesome symphony last night. I will accept your congratulations on it later.' Makalaurë pours more wine into the glass that Carnistir has half-emptied. 'So what did you do, brother?'

'I made her unhappy.' Carnistir grimaces. 'In all his wisdom, father did not predict that.'

Makalaurë chooses not to comment on their father, instead asking, 'How did you make her unhappy? I presume it wasn't intentional.'

Carnistir digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and tells his brother everything that happened at the teahouse and at the palace gardens late in the evening. Without waiting for commentary or advice concerning Tuilindien, he continues on to ranting about the shouting match with his father just an hour before.

'He told me that it was to expected that my relationship with her would end badly because the Vanyar aren't to be trusted – that they are too biddable and foolish, dedicating their lives to bowing down to the Valar, and too different to marry. _Damn him_.'

Makalaurë raises his brows again.

Carnistir huffs out a breath. 'He deserves that, Cáno! You know that he is saying all those things because he dislikes Indis and her children so much. It can't all be true and it isn't fair to Tuilindien. She isn't all of the Vanyar, she is just one woman, the woman I love.'

At the last word, Makalaurë twitches in his chair and his eyes widen in reaction. Carnistir barks out, 'What now?'

'You said you love Tuilindien.'

'Well, I do.'

'You sound angry about it', Makalaurë observes.

Carnistir's last few words had come out more angrily than he intended. He didn't plan on declaring his love out loud, but he doesn't regret it. It is true, after all, and he has known it deep inside since the moment he kissed her in the glade and she was sweeter and warmer and more radiant in his arms than he could ever have imagined.

'I'm not angry about it, or with her', he says. 'I'm angry with father. And with myself.'

'It is always someone with you, isn't it, Carnistir?' Makalaurë sighs. 'If you are not angry with anyone else, then at least yourself.'

'I deserve it', Carnistir answers, and continues before his brother can argue. 'For the look in her eyes after I gripped her too tight, Cáno. She was so afraid of me in that moment and she made this little sound of pain. I didn't know what to do with myself then. Or now.'

Makalaurë is listening intently and his eyes show a reflection of Carnistir's own pain, but he stays silent apart from a little thoughtful noise. Carnistir is reminded of how, when he was an intense little boy who would barely let his older brothers to comfort him when he was angry and distraught, Makalaurë had been the one he talked to.

Tyelkormo had always given up trying soon – and had in any case often been the cause or target of Carnistir's upset – but Maitimo and Makalaurë had kept trying to give him comfort. Maitimo would try to make Carnistir talk about his unhappiness by asking leading questions, but Makalaurë would just sat next to him while he sat scowling, arms crossed. Makalaurë would hum or play something quietly or just sit with him in silence, and eventually Carnistir would tell him what was wrong.

'I think I shall take up the breathing exercises again', Carnistir says after a while. His parents had taught them to him when he was a child, and the meditative exercises had helped to some degree. He had given them up some years ago when he was growing into adulthood and busy with apprenticeships. Clearly he shouldn't have.

'That sounds like a good idea', Makalaurë agrees.

'And there is nothing to do but wait for Tuilindien to contact me. If she ever does.' Carnistir kicks the table leg, not that hard, but the table is less sturdy than it appears. It wobbles, and the long-stemmed wine glass of delicate crystal falls over. Thankfully the glass falls into the half-eaten cake so it doesn't break, but the mess is spectacular.

After Makalaurë scrambles to dry off the wine with napkins and the edges of the tablecloth before it can drip onto the floor, he says, 'One piece of advice and one command. The command first: stop kicking my furniture, Moryo.'

'I'm sorry', Carnistir says sheepishly and crawls under the table to fetch fallen cutlery.

'It's alright. And my advice: yes, you should wait for her to approach you again. She asked you to do so, so it would be the right thing to do anyway, but the reason for her asking makes even more important that you don't intrude.'

'I know', Carnistir says. 'She deserves the time to consider whether she can stand my temper.'

'It is a lot to take in, you know. To tie oneself to, forever.'

'I know', Carnistir replies again.

'Do you, really? Have you considered all the implications if she decides to marry you?'

'What do you mean?' Carnistir tries not to grow irritated. Advice is what he came here for – well, that and a place to stay. He will listen to what Makalaurë has to say, though it stings that his brother might be wiser when it comes to Tuilindien than Carnistir himself.

'Think of the changes that will take place if you two end up marrying. You will gain a wife and move to a house of your own, and that is all that will change for you. All for the better, I dare say.'

Carnistir nods. Not living in the same house with his father would be a relief, even if he would miss his mother and his brothers. Well, Maitimo and the twins, at least.

'But Tuilindien – she would have to move to Tirion, for you would not go live among her people, would you?'

Carnistir has never even considered it. In all his hopes and dreams, he builds Tuilindien a house here in Tirion and they live there happily. 'No', he confirms and lets Makalaurë continue explaining things to him as to a child, things he had known but not realised the gravity of.

'Thus if she marries you, she will have to change her whole life: to leave her home, her family and her own folk and come to live among yours, with you as her only anchor in her new life. We – I mean, mother and Tinweriel and I and most of our brothers, if not father – would of course try to make her feel welcome and part of our family, but it would still be a lot for her to give up. For you.'

'It is no wonder if she wonders if I am worth it, especially after I scared and hurt her.' Carnistir groans. He has been aware of everything that Makalaurë has just said, but he has not thought much about it. Blindly, selfishly, optimistically he has just assumed that Tuilindien would simply overcome these concerns, accepting without difficulty that they came with him.

'Her needing time to think does not have to be a sign of her lesser love, it could be just that she has all these things to consider and that she is a careful person. Is she?'

Carnistir sighs and messes up his hair some more. 'Yes, she is careful and cautious. That's why she finds it hard to understand me, why she doesn't realise that I would marry her tomorrow if she would have me.'

'Coming from the Vanyar, she may never even have met anyone like you before.'

'Probably. I don't think either of us understands how we came to fall in love with each other when we are so different.'

'Love is incomprehensible, that is why there are so many songs about it. We keep trying to solve its mystery, but not even the Valar know.' Makalaurë hums a few notes. 'So do not give up on all hope yet, Moryo.'

Carnistir straightens himself up in his chair, still restless yet also more at peace now. 'Thank you, Cáno. I won't. I am good at holding on to things, at least', he says wryly.

Makalaurë nods with a similarly wry smile. 'You and I have that in common.' Then he changes the subject. 'What will you occupy your days with while you stay here? I assume you won't be continuing the projects you had with father, and you can't do breathing exercises all day.'

Carnistir toys with a wine-stained, crumpled napkin. 'I have that supervisory role at lord Ninquiner's mansion worksite. It takes up two or three days a week. For the rest… do you think grandfather Finwë might have some work for me?'

Once again, he has said something to make Makalaurë raise his brows. 'What kind of work?'

'Clerical, administrative, something to do with assisting him.'

'You hate the court and the people there – you are always complaining they are inefficient and pretentious.'

Carnistir shrugs. 'I do hate it all. That's why I was thinking that it might be a good opportunity for me to practise self-control.'

Makalaurë looks like he's stifling laughter. 'I'm sure it would be.'

Carnistir glares at him.

'Really, it sounds like a good idea', Makalaurë assures him. 'And since grandfather has found a place for every one of his grandchildren who have expressed an interest in working for him so far, I'm sure he will find you something to do. Even if you scowl and glower the entire time.'

Carnistir chooses not to reply to Makalaurë's last words. Instead, he says, 'Turukáno moved to a new administrative position recently. I don't know if grandfather has chosen a new private secretary yet.'

'I think not', Makalaurë says after mulling it over for a few seconds. 'You should ask him as soon as possible.'

'I'll ask today', Carnistir says. 'A little later, though.'

Makalaurë stretches luxuriously. 'Choose a guest bedroom of your liking and settle in. Or stay and eat. I can ask the cook for more food.'

'I'm not hungry', Carnistir says, eyeing the mess on the table. 'I promise I will be a better houseguest from now on. I don't want to cause strife between you and you wife.'

'Don't worry about it', says Makalaurë dismissively even as he moves a piece of wine-soaked cake to his plate. 'But even though you are welcome to stay with us as long as you like, please think about whether you can forgive father at some point. You know it grieves mother when we are in discord with him.'

Carnistir rises from his chair, careful not to shake the table again. 'At some point, I might _think_ about it. For mother's sake', he says. 'And only if father admits he is wrong.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we'll see how Tuilindien deals with the time and space she asked for. It will also be a short chapter but the one after that is likely to be a monster.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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